A thin snow is sifting through the dark air--sugaring the strips and tussocks of bare ground; muting the spikes of chives and daffodils, the crooked scallions, the folded sorrel leaves. No blossoms anywhere yet; just these tough greens muscling through the frostbitten soil.

In the yellow kitchen, an earthenware jar of deep pink tulips rests on the elderly chrome and formica table. In the blue living room, a bowl of scarlet begonias glimmers against window glass. The woodstove murmurs. The white cat washes his feet on the black hearthrug.

Color, so brave and bright, battling this dour northern spring . . . every year it lifts my heart.

Tu Fu readers: Let's move on to poems XXIV through XXX.