What does a housebound soul feel when she steps outside?
Does she tremble with fear, like the last leaf on my autumn tree, sensible of a new season that will blow everything into forgetting?
Does she bow under the weight of strange possibilities, like the limb where the birds have made their nest, overcome with so many thoughts of birth and flight?
Or does she burst into splendor, like the sparkling blossoms in springtime, too full of hope and life to close upon herself any longer, breaking into beauty at every turn?