In a spare, deceptively simple meditation on time, change and renewal, Monday visits comfortably with friends Lester Day and Tom Morrow (get it?) but, increasingly bemused as entire successive seasons burst in with whirls of poetry—"I am Spring, / I am green, / I abound. / Into the wind I put its rustling sound. / I quiver, timid in the pinkness of a bud"—at last fades outright into a winter snowstorm.
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