blast out your message of hope!
Rebel against the weariness of despair,
the back-breaking burden of seriousness,
the meticulous dissection of fearful plans.
None of the world’s noise is loud enough
to silence the sound of your wordless proclamation:
“Have hope, hope, hope!”
The grimy winter is grinding to a halt
and from the earth’s breast,
goodness is springing forth once again.
A world of grey is shattered
by one shard of green and yellow life.
Our world is fragile
yet crocuses cup sunshine
and daffodils bloom
Come spring, come spring,
Let flowers sing!
Let no more melancholy winter reign,
With its thousand reasons to complain.
No more introspection in the dark
Be rather joyous as the lark!
Burst outside the walls your soul restricting
Let yourself fly on winds uplifting.
A hillside of flowers catches my eye
I hurry toward them on feet light and lithe.
Tiny crocuses shake in the breeze
Delighted to see them I drop to my knees
Translucent petals tremble and sigh
But lift their glowing faces to the sky.
Despite the February frost,
Let not one day of sunshine be lost!
They look like a bowl of dried bones,
cold and lifeless–
a tragic ode to time lost
and utterly incapable of change–
but look more closely!
Within their crinkled-shut hearts,
clenched in the knuckles of their bony hands,
are tiny gems
bursting with possibility!
When the sun’s warm gaze melts
the unfeeling snow
into lovely spring water,
blooms will unfurl
from these dusty bones.
After winter’s grimness,
we’ll see the world in colour again,
and the flowers will laugh
that we thought them dead.
The trees are so stable,
their moods have such endurance.
They hold on for months
to the bare bitterness of winter,
the absence of even a rustling leaf.
Then the trees embrace the sweet joyfulness of spring
in a long coquettish smile,
a blossom-blush lasting months.
Afterwards, the trees sail into the smooth serenity of summer,
wearing their regal wreaths with proud satisfaction.
Even the flaming, flickering colours of fall flash across their faces for months,
the trees, with their moods more stable than mine,
for I am but a tiny body of water
wrapped in skin.
My thinly guarded surface subject to tremors of wind,
the harassment of a sudden hailstorm
or the steady pounding of rain.
I’ve been know to get icicles in my eyelashes
tears of pain frozen before fully released.
Some things are better to let go of quickly.
In all this variable moodiness,
this passionate intensity and depth of feeling,
I am not alone,
for are we not all but small bodies of water
wrapped in skin,
the tides in our hearts tugged about by not just the moon,
but by the moods of all the other bodies of water
bumping around us
in this space
that is earth.
Spring is finally here.
The toddler and I are equally happy
digging in the garden
with dirt under our fingernails
and warm sunshine in our hair.
Out in the garden,
I can almost forget my messy house
–rooms cluttered with kids’ clothes and toys–
out here where dirt means not disorder,
but openness to growth
and getting messy is a necessary step
on the path to beauty.
The flower is wise.
She is neither insecure nor proud,
because she knows that she is loved
not because she is lovely,
but because she was created by Love.
Her loveliness stems
from the love of her Creator
whom she glorifies
simply by being herself.
Dry corn stalks stick up–
the skeleton of summer
revealing past warmth.