I’m here so infrequently now I almost don’t remember my password. Yikes. Well, in the effort to get myself back to writing, here is a thing I wrote about spring.
After so many months of slate-dark skies we lost faith
in the sun. Calendars turn purposeless
when rain follows rain and clouds
lie heavy over the cities
like dirt over old bones
which are becoming fossil –
rock, dead, but once living.
The dead don’t need sunlight, don’t care
whether it’s warm or when
shatters down to the surface.
We do not want to be dead.
We do not want to be dead, but spring’s promise
is late, we think, so we assume the worst:
a year of mud instead of flowers
clouds instead of sky
brown instead of pink
gray instead of blue.
Our world closes in, drains our colors,
and offers only a cloudy day
a cloudy day
a cloudy day
a cloudy day.
When the flowers do bloom, they bare their faces
hesitantly. They are pallid, limp, ghostly attempts
at themselves. They know what they could be –
vibrant, fearless, blazing –
but they don’t know how,
not without the sun.
Sometimes change is subtle and
sometimes it is abrupt –
a match flares while a coal
a car crash ends a life while another life stretches
until, piece by piece, one at a time,
it breaks down.
When the promised change came, it came subtly.
It came purposefully, with beauty designed,
first as a warm rain
and a smell of healing earth, then
as gentler mornings and rose-gold evenings,
and on the third day they rolled
the stone away and the rain stopped
and the magnolias bloomed,
so that whosoever believed
would have eternal spring.