Springtime comes
And my baby will never be born.
Springtime comes
And the bush wren will never exist in the world again.
When my dreams have withered and can no longer breathe
When hope has become a wound, an insult.
Spring comes, relentlessly.
Uncaring and impossible.
It will never stop.
The soul that once lived in the song of that bird
The light I would have seen in the eyes of my child.
I am searching in the petals of this flower, the call of this bird.
Those who are not anywhere can perhaps be everywhere.
New things insist on becoming.
Relentless.
This impossible green light.
The veins of this new leaf glow in the sun.
My reluctant heart breathes it in.
Glories in it.
It will never stop.
If there is not hope in that,
there is not hope in anything.
Grief Is The Word 
Beautiful. So many lines really resonated with me. Thank you for this.
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Dear Phoenix, thank you so much. I am so glad it resonated with you. xxx
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This is gorgeous. It perfectly captures how spring made me feel for many years. What had once been my favorite season became what felt like a bombardment of mockery. Your wonderful piece reminds me of the time when I just wanted the world (and its incessant renewal) to just stop for awhile.
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Thank you so much for your comment. I am so glad that this resonated for you – yes, I was trying to capture the paradox of the miraculous beauty of spring at a time when hope feels cruel but cannot be denied. These days I am much more able to feel the hope in the new life surging everywhere at this time of year. Its insistent arrival every year brings a kind of comfort.
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