Of Bricks and Spring

The sun is bright outside,
and the garden,
even if not in bloom,
is vibrant with life,
bursting with growth
after a vicious winter,
slowly starving in the bitter
cold.

Your heart too, has starved,
a slow almost death,
nearly, but not quite
fatal,
no longer willing
to be a prisoner,
held at bay by bars and glass
pretending to be doors.

No,
the spring will not be denied.
Love will not be denied,
it will be real as you raise
one last brick,
no longer destined
to be part of the wall,
but instead thrown hard
against the glass,
creating
the first ragged opening
to life.

Yes, you will bleed
as your hands are cut on the jagged glass,
pulling it away shard by angry shard,
but for each drop of blood shed,
life and light,
the warm refreshing air,
real and vibrant green,
rushes into your lungs,
and you know

that for all the pain of spring,
the blood and loss of love’s cruel winter
feed not your grave,
but life.

About this poem. 

Plants die. Love dies. People die. Hope dies. And we can spend our days looking out at new life pretending it does not exist for us, or we can step into the sun, pretending it is all for us, if only we dare.

The picture was taken out a window at the Freer Museum of Art in Washington, DC.

Tom