Sunday, April 17, 2011


                                        In the spring of the year,

there is so much life.

There is rain and grass and sun,
and they all need each other.

There are lambs.
New and white and warm,
their legs shaky, as they learn to walk in the world,
and their pink tongues, thirsty for milk.

We go outside, and dance in the streets, with our faces tilted to the sky,
and we plow the soft, cool,  earth,
and dream of what is to come of it.

We still, but barely, remember that there was winter, and cold.
Days and days where there was not sun,
Only piles and piles of snow.
And wind, that aged our faces and made our skin rough.

We have almost forgotten the months we've weathered,
and how,
 in those months, we almost forgot there was anything else.

But spring still came to us,

new and muddy,
and we still rejoice and we laugh our laughs,
and smile our smiles, when it does.
When it finally does.

The earth breaks open,
and we carefully sow the seeds, and we wait.

For in the spring of the year,
there is so much life.

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