A Deep River Year  - 2017

Spring seems so close. This morning we walked past clumps of snowdrops, and a hillside full of green daffodil spears showing off fat buds. Hidden at the base of a stone wall a few shy periwinkles bloomed purple in the grey dawn. And lo and behold, peeking out from the underbrush along our driveway, two brave crocus blossoms seemed to be deciding whether it was time to make their appearance. Yet this cold morning promised a return to Winter. Tomorrow the temperature may not be above freezing and the night may bring some snow. It is the fate of those of us who live in this place that we must learn to endure with patience.


I would rather have Spring. Some day soon, it will be here in all of its glory. But today, out in the garden, I celebrate the kale that has survived our most bitter days, and wonder at the sturdy foxgloves that seek the sunlight as they push through the remnants of melting snow. I want, for myself, such patience, such strength, to make my own Spring through the cold days that may yet lie ahead.


The Thing Called Life


Whatever it is,
that spark of life
at the heart of tender things,
is fierce, a might flame.
We handle it with care.,
fearful of wounding
some fragile creature
that would bloom, or sing,
or bend away from us in fear.
We call it holy,
this life which fills our world,
that makes it breathe and even love.
And we should do this:
protect, nurture, cherish
what lives, even for its little time.
But on a March morning,
we kneel in awe to see
a leaf push through iron earth,
even through snow and ice,
daring us to live so green
when all that is around
would turn us brown.