Sometimes spring comes

not in new leaf green

and the frolic of lambs

but in the slime and leftovers

of winter,

gutters of dank leaves


and the colours of spring

are jonquil pale,

grape hyacinth blue—

dark, deep blue

and fragile.



Sometimes the golden daffodils

signal cancer

and a spring wind slices the smile off our face


We clutch the dark of winter

to our hearts, despair’s familiar scarf up to our necks

and smell the decomposing dreams

of musty bulbs, not planted.



Yet we believe—

after the chill, the thaw

and azure skies, and blossom trees, and tulips’ blaze

will come

and slim tendrils of faith

will crack our densest walls, finding the sun


And spring is here, tight fronds unfurling

and summer will follow: Christ reborn in our land


so we give thanks

so we give thanks

so we give thanks.