Creator of springtime,
how can it be that every year
I forget the miracles visiting
the land in the form of fresh leaves,
laughing flowers, greening grass.
Winter holds a strong power over me.
I lose the memory of vibrant vigor,
the unseen energy raising
dead earthen things to awakening life.
Risen One, dwelling within me,
how can it be that I forget you,
your passionate grace tending my soul,
your constant stream of hope
rising up through the dead ground
of my brown, barrened prayer.
I turn to you in this season of spring,
bowing gratefully
to every growing plant, every flourishing flower,
for each one sings an Easter metaphor
full of memory, proclaiming your wild embrace
of my inner life, a life holding the promise
of an eternal return to spring.
© Joyce Rupp
POEMS
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by Joyce.
