When spring brings
these green spears, heralds of rising life,
I ache, awake.
I want to slip myself under that emerald blanket where
roots weave through wet humus,
To revere what the dark made holy,
to set my womb down
against the dust of life and death and life again,
to ground myself in the resurrected nourishment,
to find the quiet where loss gives rise to life.