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