This first day of spring was quite cool here but I've kept a distant window open, burrowing myself deeper under the coverlet if I get chilled.
Congestion and a cough have put me to bed for four days but I believe I've turned the corner as today turned a season.
I've been thinking of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. How terrible to be so sickly for most of her life, relegated to window views of Florence as seasons changed in the city she loved.
Four decades ill is unimaginable on any day but especially on this first day of spring.
"By this couch I weakly lie on,
While I count my memories,
Through the fingers which, still sighing,
I press closely on mine eyes,
Clear as once beneath the sunshine,
I behold the bower arise."
The Lost Bower, LXIX
Elizabeth Barrett Browning