The Promise is Real
You have traveled south, and back home again.
It is spring there, a month ahead of you.
Green grass and daffodils. Wildflowers
instead of newly exposed earth, brown and barren.
You smelled life in the air.
You felt the sun on your skin.
Their cold is your warm.
A good three days.
And now, you are here. You are home.
Spring has not yet dropped its hints.
But a short journey of three days,
watching the season change as you drove.
Turning green on the way,
brown on the way back. Just that. The journey
has been more than a reminder that spring exists
somewhere. And it comes.
The promise is real. God waits
to dance with you and the newborn grass.
About this poem
I traveled down to Virginia earlier this week. It was a balm and a promise. Spring is coming.
In more ways than one.