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 