The transparent, slate-blue curtains pull in flat against the screen of the open windows as the world outside inhales slowly, deeply, deliberately before exhaling the fluttering fabric out into billowing grey-blue clouds that toss gently back and forth against the folds. The white-gold grass jumps into stark contrast against the dark grey sky; the vision appears and disappears in snippets as my view of the front yard flits in and out of focus while the curtains rise and fall like the chest of the slowly dying old man winter. The dryer buzz startles me from my reverie, and I turn from the poetry of an early spring to focus on the never-ending to-do list that awaits me.