New leaves, lavender stems,
buds on the climbing rose, dew on the grass,
lit by the sun emerging from a sky of soft blue,
as eggshell, or a newborn’s gaze.
I see all this as something all of a sudden new,
unveiled to eyes that had winter’s blinkers on.
How long had the yellow spring rose been bursting its buds so tight?
And when did all the trees regain their leaves?
The grass has taken on a new shade of ripest green
while the sun’s caress now bears my arms and legs,
to feel its growing warmth upon my skin.
Skin that feels as new as the season.
I shed my winter’s ills and a mind that thinks in past tense,
and take hold of the promise that we are given,
at the beginning of a new day,
new season, year or passageway.
Whoever said death was the last word,
has never seen his temple against a wide sky,
or worshipped at the altar of this earth,
where his glory is reflected in fragments that we can receive.
Yes, this spring speaks to me of life.
The earth grows ever old as it spins on its axis,
while the universe is expanding all the time;
and there are new leaves on the old wood of my Hydrangea plants.
Yes God is seen in both the great and the small.
And His gift to us is always life.
Though the earth might circle the sun a million more times,
or it may not; life will not grow old, but renews itself.
Ana Lisa de Jong