Poetry

Spring Psalm

Mt. Crumpet under a fresh dusting.

Oh, Lord.
It is a gloomy day.
The cat and dog spar.
The rest of us feel blah.
The calendar says spring.
The weather man says snow.
How long, O Lord?

We’ve had enough winter:
Enough piles of ice and dirt,
of crystals and flakes.
We are ready to embrace
boot-grasping mud or
weak sunshine.

Selah.

We live in Maine,
and this is spring.
Snow accumulates.
It melts and runs
into the basement.

Did we not learn
last year? No.
(Optimists.)
Come sun and summer,
we clean it out again.

For now, again,
cat spits, dog grumbles.
Children go grim.
Mother wants a nap.
Tonight we pray again
for spring tomorrow.

What cry of ours will bring it?
How long, O Lord?
How long must we wait
for crocus and daffodil,
for signs of life?

Selah.

It will come.
Surely.
Someday.
We pray.

Small complaint,
snow,
beside earthquake,
tsunami,
radiation,
air strikes.

So we give thanks
for hot food in a warm house
for hands clasped around the table
for a sweet dog spread across the floor
for love here and far away.

We work it through.

Selah.

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