Monday, April 9, 2018

April is the cruelest month

Regular readers know that I enjoy winter. This is most certainly true. Yesterday again we had a few inches of snow, and yesterday while five deer traipsed through my meadow, not seeming to mind the flakiness of it all, I hunkered down in front of my window and worked on indoor projects and ate popcorn and drank LaCroix and chaga and worked on a story I'm writing. The evening was absolutely gorgeous.

But recognizing my own (and others') impatience and doubt about whether spring will actually ever arrive, I started playing with poetry this morning. This doesn't do a thing to hasten the arrival of spring, but it's fun to play with words.

I'm always confident that God is doing good things under the snow. And if (when, says faith) it arrives, I believe spring will be all the more glorious because of that. But even a lover of snowshoes and blizzards like myself can get impatient. So because it seems like winter is lasting forever:

We have never known effervescent Spring
when robins return to nest
freshets flow in sprints to bring
ponds to waiting depressions where

the cold of January held arid sway
and budding maples do their best
to draw sweet water from earth to sky
while raindrops speed through air

to soak the softened earth.
Spring is all foreign to those
living prescient rumors of rebirth
but who have loved only in bitter ice.

We have never known green and mud
where multifoliate petals rose
to the embrace of carbonated blood
beneath starlit spring-fed skies.

What would it be to wander free
as the hands of the rain gently pry
open blue floral banquets, and -- see!
Spring's songbirds not only sing, but fly?

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