Oops!

I guess I am a little ahead of the curve.

Very readily the first day of March

in Florida turned cold.  The wind

whipped the waves in the bay into

a fury. The white caps looked like

sea creatures.

But being a hearty northerner

comes in handy. I cranked up

the heat and continued to knit

my Easter bunny socks. I'm half

way through the second sock.

And today I am mulling a lovely poem

by Naomi Nye titled: "Famous."

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to the silence,

which knew it would inherit the earth

before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds

watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom

is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous the the earth,

more famous than the dress shoe,

which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it,

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to the shuffling men,

who smile while crossing streets,

sticky children in grocery lines,

famous as the one who smiled back.

Today I want to famous for knitting spring

despite all the odds.