Spring

The sun is deceptive.
The breeze brings the cool of mountain waters.
The grass becoming green again,
but clouds of dust sweep across the fields
grit in the teeth, dirt in the eyes,
chills that penetrate sweatshirts and jeans.

Ah, Spring!
Where is your sting?

With the bees still hiding in their combs,
the earth comes with penetrating stings,
reminding me of the wildness of creation,
the wildness of the wilderness.

A longing to pass through the wilderness
to the promises made by Spring.

The promise of summer warmth to come,
the fellowship of dirt with the sun
and rain, producing fruit from the seed of promise.

Does the seed have promise?
Will it become thorns or flowers?
Perhaps both, with pain below the outward beauty.

Perhaps the flowers will be unattractive
yet hold within sweet fruit to eat.
Perhaps still beautiful flowers await
with even more precious fruit to come.

Ah, Spring!
Even on a cold windy day, your promises
stir the spirit for more than what is now.

What is to come, that is for what is it
to ponder on a cold bench.  The promise of summer
in a true spring day is still of greater inspiration
than a false summer created by gas and walls.