Spring is not birdsongís awakening following Winterís frozen edge
But migrations left behind, exhausted promised calls instead
Spring is not Winterís frozen sheet needling threads of green,
but seeded promise inside shell waiting the unseen.
Spring is not sunshine warming, laughter blossoming delight
but seeded shellís tenacity, armor against Winterís darkest night -
Spring is not a warm embrace, whispered words of love,
nor aromatic teasing scents set forth from night-bloomed buds
nor hearts testing blinded needs, counting seasonís way
as melted memories of what once was
evaporate the worship of each remarkable day.
Winter is forgotten, ego claims its own,
distracted by Godís earthly embrace,
we have forgotten seedís harvested home.
Yet, what is this? Blanketed prayer, cotton breathe pulls thin through air
stretches, weaves beyond the seen, Spring waits, bountiful to share.
Spring is not east windowís warmth easing all to face the sun
But tomb-shell emptied, bouquets proof that Springís planting
The sun has no course but to follow the light of its own,
sun-showering life over the darkest of nights
in the darkness of our season's home.
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