With my spring chicken.

Makes sense. To feel blessed. To have reached old age. Beats the alternative. Dying young. Before one gets there. I'm told. Life has stages. Like seasons. But these seasons come only once.  Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. There's something good. And fascinating. About 'em all. Even winter. When I flee Minnesota. For a while. To spend life's winter. With my spring chicken (amore mio). Yes, makes perfect sense. To feel blessed. --Jim Broede