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A Shakespearean postscript

I reserve anoth­er time to talk about dark things. Just yes­ter­day, like a post­script to its own end, win­ter returned to lay heavy snow on what had been bloom­ing. A sticky wadding now dec­o­rates the trees ; an exoskele­ton of ice runs along with the wrought iron. The air is no longer one of ten­der­ness and spring. We put on a bit of wool while wait­ing for it to pass. We obe­di­ent­ly keep our backs to the wall. The wine­grow­ers do not see it the same way. It’s because the vines, when they wake up, are so frag­ile. But we, who are learn­ing to live with covid vari­ants, have many oth­er stings to hope for, and the cold one is only small stuff com­pared to the hor­ror sto­ries and thromboses.

Every­thing will even­tu­al­ly pass, and us with it. And this nag­ging weight on the del­i­ca­cy of flow­ers, my good­ness, it’s so Shakespearean.

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