Spring is returning.
The budding life — for a time, lying dormant — is rejoining the world.
The sun creeps to its higher position, forcing the land to transitions.
The voice of bashful life is practicing new song…
And, for me, the dormancy remains.
Why is it not as rejuvenating as the last spring?
Is it the load that has been carried since the passing of all that has been observed:
the father I never knew? The life of religious regret? The mid-life woes I cannot define?
This winter that remains in me?
Will the budding return to me as the life unfolds across our land?
I cherish the love of my people. Their springs of graciousness. Their ponds of laughter.
I eat of His fruit, yet, it sometimes turns to rot as it hits my lips.
Is God telling me a story, in a foreign language, that has no ending? In a tongue that speaks like the mysterious call of the Crow of our field?
English would suffice!!
Perhaps I’m in a place where the grass will not grow, yes, perhaps.
Or, maybe the Spring will rejuvenate the same life that I have known in many seasons gone by.