These grounds, still covered with
dusty grey piles, winter’s leftovers
that just won’t go away and
the warmth of the sun is a tease.
Grass is brown, mottled where it shows.
Debris from autumn’s decline,
Winter’s ravage litters the edge,
evidence of geese and fowl speckle the fields.
Leggy pines, naked bushes, pokey vines.
All cry out for spring’s attention.
These grounds yearn for the new.
In the aftermath of one season and
predawn of the next,
when all pulls toward hurry –
And I see.
Red tips at the end of that tree.
The one that’s bare and ugly,
needing a trim, longing for
leaves and spring.
That’s where I see fire.
Evidence of the Divine –
flaming slender boughs
that are alive
waving and praising.
Note: This poem is part of my Lenten discipline, in which I attempt to cultivate space and quiet in order to hear from God and respond with poetry. This particular tree inspired two poems; you can read the other one here.
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