Spring [teddi]

Why do we believe that spring shall come?
Because it is what we are told?
Or because it always has?
Or because we feel like it will?
What if spring forgot to make its stop,
missed the flight,
forgot the date,
came a little too late.
What if it never showed?

Winter is basking in its glory,
in chapped hands and street side snow.
It is stagnant, static, constant
and it provokes:
"If spring never comes,
you will get used to Me.
Eventually you will cease to want to feel
the sunshine on your skin or the taste of
berries on your tongue or the breeze in your hair.
You will no longer care,
You will settle into Me like a pillow,
Resignation cradling you,
and I will be all you know."

We do not know when and we do not know how
but we trust:
that just as we inhale to breathe,
or chew to swallow,
or close our eyes to enter sleep,
so will spring proceed winter.
We've seen it happened before and we will see it again:

Her birthing from the ground,
raining from the sky, dancing in the song of the birds.
She is brilliant, she is beauty, she is nature's metaphor of hope.

And She is on her way.