I woke up this morning to a city quiet and covered in snow. Grief hung in the air. Will spring EVER come? On my walk to yoga I was inspired to write. A Simon and Garfunkel song whispering in my ears…
The robins who have begun to sing the morning rapture, slept late.
A suffocating quiet echoed in their place.
The crocuses are covered in a soft blanket of white,
a crystalline quilt of soggy ice.
Empty of its prior beauty and magic, what remains is cold,
wet and heavy. A love once new has now grown old
I can feel the longing as I walk beneath the boughs of the trees.
Potential growth struggling to burst forth.
Reaching out to the sky standing empty and tall, buds aching to ripen.
Not hoping, but knowing that change will happen.
Can I stay as patient as the oak?
Can I remain as steadfast as the maple?
Can I trust that nature will run its course?
I have no choice but to remember the pattern of past seasons,
which inevitability arrive and fade. Sometimes without rhyme or reason.
Every year, a new year. Not quite like the one before but always cycling again.
April, come she will. And like that, the snow gives way to rain.
Love and light,
Kristin (& Luna)