This morning it was snowing. Driving particles of frozen water fleeing from the sky in such haste you had to wonder what was pursuing them. It bit at my skin and kissed my eyelashes and melted on my face after giving me a white crown.

What was unusual about this snow was that it was April 12, 2001, and spring had been in full-bloom for several weeks. The forsythia bushes were in full bloom, and there was A Host of Golden Daffodils outside my doorway. However, unlike in William Wordsworth's poem, they were not bobbing their golden heads in a spring breeze. They were peeking out cautiously, mischeviously, from underneath a white cloak.

It was such a strange experience to see the verdant growth of spring, yellow-green, pink, red, and golden all wrapped in that sterile, sheltering white layer. It was almost breathtakingly beautiful and thought-provoking. It was as if winter had come back for a whirling dance with the flowers, as though it were tired of always having to depart just before beauty cloaked the world full-force.

It was also strangely sombering, to see the magnolia blossoms turning dead and brown in the cold. Death was reminding life that it only had a little time to laugh and rejoice -- spring may break forth into summer and wane into autumn but the last dance is always with its creator, the winter winds and storms.

I skipped class in order to take photographs of the whole experience. Sometimes it is more important to stir something deep within your soul then it is to ingest information whole-sale.

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