It's almost springtime, and every year as winter slowly edges out the door it leaves behind a reminder of the One who created the seasons.
Even slush is a sign from God
When snow comes down,
crystal-white and clean,
it settles in flawless formation
against the world.
Blades of grass become tiny daggers,
houses turn into gingerbread
and daylight into a galaxy of stars.
No one can say it isn't beautiful,
that first crisp crunch through the sun-hardened crust of frost.
No one can say it isn't just as delectable
as bread new-birthed from the oven
It's the crumbs we regret.
The slush on the side of the road,
the gathered leavings,
stale as the word gray.
The snow turns from glistening diamond to coal dust
blackening our lungs,
the dirt it had covered so cleverly
churned up by the movements of the world
Too soon, we say.
Too soon the snow goes sludgy,
too soon the bread goes stale.
Unthinkable, the idea of a purity
that lasts.
But
if we could have the snow washed clean again
then anything might be possible.
No comments:
Post a Comment