Lisa Steinman
	Cold Spring Someone should wash the study windows; forsythia, the thickest yellow this year, and the deepening gray clouds at what must be dawn, give the thicket of green spring leaves a texture so dense seeing becomes a tactile thing. Behind the luminous gray-green-  yellow, once in a while, two red brake lights from a commuter's car wink in passing. The cherries have not yet —  clouds of pink froth — floated free but by week's end, they will . . . . What with everything condensing or floating, spring turns heady, yellow the only stroke of pure color. (The greens are more matter-of-fact, dark in the ill-lit morning.) When the sun finally hits, each floret's bright yellow is so fierce you can hear them all crying: Fire. Fire. You reach out to them. They warm your hands.