Late winter, frightened winter, winter that knows it's losing its grip on the earth. Late winter can't hold rivers in suspension like stone or hardened iron. Rivers are quietly coming to life, moving through the heart of Illinois like new blood coursing through the veins of winter's victim. Last snow, the most winter could conjure up to make an attempt to show its power. Landscape tones in greys and white waiting, waiting for colors of a renewal of earth. When will it come? How long must we wait for colors to be placed on an empty palette? Winter -- can we call it a disinfectant of the previous dying earth or could we call winter a redeemer cloaked in white readying earth for spring?

Larry Beckett