Spring is a promise
in the closed fist
of a long winter. All
we have got is a raw
slant of light at a low
angle, a rising river
of wind, and an icy rain
that drowns out green
in a tide of mud. It is
the daily postponement
that disillusions. (Once
again the performance
has been cancelled by
the management.) We live
on legends of old
springs. Each evening
brings only remote
possibilities of
renewal: “Maybe
tomorrow.” But the
evening and the morning
are the umpteenth day
and the God of sunlit
Eden still looks
on the weather
and calls it good.
1 comment:
I want to say Nicole and Lee and anyone else who is involved in this blog; thanks.
Thanks for the poem too. It sounds a bit bleak when put like that...but I like imagery of the first sentence and the other spring reference too - 'we live in the legends of old springs' because sometimes you have to hang on to what God has done for you in the past (springs) to get you through and believe he will do it again.
Living here in Armidale, it gets like that over (the real) winter...so cold it goes to your bones but you can always go for a drive to the coast for the day to thaw out...I'm sure warm fellowship and remembering the truth of scripture must offer that to us when it is bleak.
It would be nice to have more time to *talk* together more about these things.
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