Spring is here, sort of. In the last two days we have had about a foot and a half of snow. The trampoline is about to break, limbs are threatening to snap off of our trees, the willow den collapsed, and one of the supports on our chicken tractor gave out. Spring is in remission. It is Good Friday, and I couldn’t help but think that the Spring Earth has died and been buried in a white shroud. However, the forecast for Resurrection Sunday is a balmy 7 celsius, and I am hoping that the grass will shake its grave and rise green and full of life, transformed by the wetness of spring.

All of this reminded me of a poem I wrote several years ago when we were expecting our first, who was born on May First. Birth, any kind of birth, is a fragile thing. Whether it is a child, a season, a dream, the 14 lambs we have welcomed this spring… all of it carries with it the endless horizon of potential and the possibility that things may go horribly wrong.

Here’s to a blessed Easter and the safe arrival of all the births that surround you.

 

The Arrival

Spring is coming
it grows, hidden, in this
frosty, white womb

It is showing now,
a bird, a patch of grass-
swelling and obvious

Each snowy storm or wintry wind
bears the fear,
the threat, of miscarriage

Yet all around,
the world is warming
and anticipation builds

Then with a cry
the birds call out
the long awaited arrival

Swollen snow banks flatten into puddles
and children splash along streets
wet from from that glorious birth

And life abounds

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