Why this sadness toward spring? Half smiles at the first yellow flowers, Tears pooling for no reason with each rain and sunset?
Each year this green show blows wide winter’s coverings and lets us see the swell and push of beginning again.
Am I meant to rise too? To push away what leans against the door of my pinched heart? I cannot. Compassion for myself is a slow growing crop, however carefully tended it yields an unreliable harvest.
These resurrections ask more than I can give every time this hurts more than the pains of my body than the old world full of sorrows this offering of love this unbearable gift of another chance.
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revlyncox_feed at 12:57pm on 2025-04-20