I went walking yesterday at old Wapehani. The redbuds were out in force. It was a bittersweet day, as it always is to go walk among the ghosts of my boyhood. But spring returns as always, as the Beowulf poet points out:
. . . oþðæt oþer com gear in geardas, swa nu gyt doð þa ðe syngales sele bewitiað, wuldortorhtan weder.
. . . until another year came to the homes of men, even as still they do, weathers glorious and bright that in endless succession observe the seasons.
