And then I saw that the gutters were thick with hail and torn blossoms, crimson and white and flame-orange and the soft new green of pine needles. The hail had torn down and destroyed all the new buds, all the leaves curled silent and sleeping.
And all I could do was stand there with all the colors of spring crushed spiced and wild at my feet and ice caught pale in my hair, and wish devoutly for a poet's gifts. There are probably times I have wanted them more badly, but not many.