A good, long, exhausting String Field Theory show last night; then home for a bottle of rioja with my sweetheart and an oddly entertaining conversation about nineteenth-century voting laws in England and the United States. Today I'm the only one awake so far: soon I'll get the hot-cross-bun dough out of the refrigerator, leave it on the counter to warm up, go feed the goat, and then come back in to cut pineapple, shape the buns, and arrange the eggs that Tom and Paul colored yesterday while I was out doing a sound check with the band. Dinner will be lasagna, spinach salad, and lemon pie. Already the sun is shining. I hung laundry on the line yesterday for the first time this season, and there it still waves--a spring greeting, along with the mud and the melting snow and the broken branches and the daffodil shoots and the air like wine. A graciousness, a gift--Zeus softens his heart; pale Persephone climbs up from the caverns into the sunlight; her mother beams and opens her arms. Spring is the myth that becomes the truth, year after year after year.