Silk, soft, soft, silk, dips and swishes from the white window, a red ribbon sewing the ledge shut like a prize bow, a gift-wrapped hair band, a rainbow banner inked in glitter and beads. Slithering across the dust and bronze planes, arises a silkworm that cocoons itself in a pillow of winter and icy, icy snow, lying on a flat cushion that flutters with tranquillity and snowflakes and romance. Nestled in the treehouse of nature, spring warms the chilled grasses outside and the leaves rustle in the wind and the frost ceases to cloud the mirror in the car’s reflection. The flowers blossom in their effervescent life, forming a wreath of roses as the breeze blows and taps, taps, taps, on the window, calling for the emboldened ribbons and the sleeping silkworms.