The March wind
so different from the
gentle, later,
spring breeze.

Pushes, and strong arms
it’s way out of winter.
There is a strength that’s needed
for this change.
   To blow away the snow,
      the leaves that have hung
         and refused to go.

This wind… it demands.
It refuses and is stubborn.
It makes a way for what is new.
Baptizing us with rain.

Do we know the history,
the genealogy of our faith,
whose shoulders we rest within,
or the stone we’ve stumbled on?

If we listen will we see?
Were they restless as they grew,
Was there contentment in the fog?
Can they, will they, help us now?

If we listen, will they lead
and help us on our way?
Can I stay abiding,
and if I listen will I see
the fear that set them free…
the pain that made them whole
…or the loss that gave them all?

Winter, pooling in the puddles of March
      with the smell of grass still frozen to the ground
         and the tamarack brown upon the marsh.

A lacy leaf,
a gray beauty, barely visible
from a different season.

The breeze strengthened
and direction changed,
   …the lengthened days
         will birth the
         … praying hands
from within the embryonic buds. 

Today I made my bed
I knew the gift that had finished
the dreams becoming dust
but not the one that must begin

I pulled the sheets up tight
knowing no need for fright
the blankets next
for warmth tonight
my day’d begun
the gift of breath
within my lungs.

I smoothed the spread
and prayed for the day
To be covered and kept
that I might detect.
I made a pact to follow the Light
as I pulled the sheets up tight.

I am so thirsty
my lips are split
my throat parched
my voice is gravel
I hear the whispered, “come” 

I am so thirsty
face  is blistered
arms beet red
my gait uneven
I hear the whispered, “come” 

I am so weary
this wasteland walk
where’s the cup
that will quench my heart
I hear the whispered, “come”