This spring the flowers still bloom but the earth rests quiet a quiet appropriate for winter a quiet usually reserved for forests blanketed with snow. Spring is for sowing. Flowers burst from the soil as Kore returns to the sunlit land. In the joy of this abundance we forget that Persephone is the queen of death. This spring is for reaping. In the dark silence of our own homes we find the gods of death have come to collect. The gods of death have come to collect for all that you said you would pay for tomorrow. Because there are no tomorrows in this liminal space. A springtime of flowers still blossoms from the soil. The gods of death have come to collect for the times you swallowed your creativity and kept your head down, grinding away your soul with late nights. The gods of death have come to collect for each decision you made with only your wallet. For the times you walked past a Christ cold in the street. For the times you cried out for unborn children but did nothing to feed their mothers. The gods of death have come to collect too, for the times you hated yourself wrongfully. They have come to collect for the times you hated yourself rightfully, but did nothing about it aside from hating others. They have come to collect for all the times you said you would do better tomorrow because you didn't have time today. It hurts. And it is strange because flowers outside burst from the soil. Here, here is a gift-- your time. Time to replant your life. Time to repurpose your priorities. Here, there is mercy And room for forgiveness. Room for love. Room for flowers. A springtime of flowers still blossoms from the soil. At the end of this, we will be given a chance to hold hands again. We will be given a chance to hold hands with the refugee child, with her mother who you only saw as "other." We will be given a chance to hold the broken ends inside of ourselves to sew the threads together. To sow love in the hollow spaces. At the end of this, there will be a beginning and room for flowers. In the silence of our own homes we rest in the darkness of the womb. Now, in the holy, dark, quiet, grow your flowers. A springtime still blossoms from the soul.
Categories: Poetry
