True Spring
Below your hotel window, people walk
past the dirty snow and cars pock marked
with the night’s rain.
They are bundled up, these people,
with heavy coats and woolen scarfs,
natives, accustomed to the cold,
unafraid of the bitter wind,
they are part of the city landscape,
their daily courage rarely noticed,
It is easy to miss the magic of their lives.
Perhaps they miss it themselves, but
stop them on the street
and their stories flower, like a verbal spring,
fresh and full of life and color
as their truths blossom bright in the winter air.
About this poem
Everyone has a story.
Tom
Quarry House 
Funny, I woke up the morning with thoughts of my Mom and a wish in my heart that I had gotten her whole story from her before she went into her final story….you know, from her heart….not in bits and pieces, remembering certain events, but rather in context…her dreams, conflicts and more….too soon old, too late smart.
It wasn’t until the years after my divorce, (the first divorce ever on both sides of my family.) that my mom started REALLY sharing with me. It was odd, hearing history rewritten, but knowing in my heart, the re-writing was true. Sad, but also good knowing the truth instead of the myth.