Easter Sunday

You have one of my dead things now God.

“Grieve it and leave it” You told me in a dream

months ago.

Cut and dry,

like the crisp, satisfying snap

through a branch

with pruning sheers.

The cut revealed ~raw and green ~

oozing.

But do I stop, try to put the branch back?

Weep for what might have blossomed on that branch?

If only the sun had been kinder?

If only the heavy snow less cruel?

I do not.

In fact ~ I move on

satisfied to have it done.

I turn my attention

to the many branches that remain,

that will burst forth

in obscenely enchanting profusions

of plentiful petals.

So abundant that to shake them

will shower me in softness and delight.

Spring comes.

Always.

Wounds ~ if we but cut cleanly,

decisively

will heal over.

New life will fill in

never weeping for long.

Isn’t Easter all about that?

Who am I to argue?

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