It Should Be Spring
Your mother’s death, too few years ago,
in the season that should be spring.
Abuse of children and old men, hidden in the dark,
spilling out again a generation later,
and a generation after that.
The haunting image of empty shoes,
reminders of death by weapons of war
where there is no war.
The broken in your backyard, untreated.
their minds and bodies become wastelands
of lives that should be healed and whole.
Relationships built on lies, one on the other,
their foundations full of cracks, dreading
the first tremor that can send them tumbling.
It is not all dark. No.
There is love, intimate and passionate
wrapped in Paul’s love letter.
There are children, once lost, regained
and held close. Vital things, born helpless,
battered young, yet grown whole again.
You rejoice each day for their wings.
There are the one or two you touch,
the places you make a difference,
hearts not broken, but healed.
Your joy in them is immeasurable.
Your heart is too weak
to feel it all at once. Time and circumstance
have left their scars, and they still seep.
It should be spring.
But not yet. God will send it in his time,
but for now, you are still covered in snow,
waiting for the thaw.
About this poem
It’s been a long week or two. Rough, less for myself than for so many around me. Still…
It’s time for spring. I think the first warm day that comes along, I am going to chuck everything and sit in the sun.
But that may be a while.