A mourning dove perches low
sunlight gold on cold stone,
while rock sleeps, the faithful wait
for a sign of life below.
Hide and seek, lost and found--
spring’s miracles are waiting games
—but really, who has forty days
to pray to the frozen ground?
I now move too slow,
like everything, I am learning to walk
again, or is it the first time?
Quietly growing new bones.
The old gods never had patience-- but I
learned to wrap myself in persistence—
my grandmothers called it love—
and on this cold morning on my
walk at the edge of the path, I was blessed--
through scattered leaves and winter flotsam
with a purple crocus—reminding me that
the beauty isn’t separate from the mess.
©2024 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD