This April, Spring’s familiar scents— Easter lilies, fresh mown fields, Mulch, warm rain on blacktop roads— Rise again from their winter sleep Stirring the lovely forgotten past Experiences of Spring. So all these childhood memories wake: Tired feet and grass-patterned skin, Reading in the humid shade, The green porch with peeling paint, Summer evenings playing catch, The bitter taste of wild clover, Up to my knees in a creek flooded With the muddy wash of Spring. These oddly significant plain events Carved their place within my heart. But now, mere guests, they cannot make Themselves fully at home, But bring about a lonesome ache, Lost loveliness’ sweet lament. This is proclaimed the season of joy: The fragrance of Spring is all of Christ Rising to life. Yet creation groans (As in a prayer), obscured with the spice And sting of smoke that rises From stone to glory’s throne, While passing time leaves us bereft. Love still bids us prepare this place For the one who bears out every love. How will he hallow a hollowed heart? One made ready (having embraced Those now given to him in time) Is stirred to receive what to us is born: A gift, whose essence recollects Presence by memory.
Image by Don Kawahigashi.