Grace and Peace to you.
Earth has had a fever of cold,
twisting in her sheets, her clammy hands
in the dark restless, white blankets
disordered, hard and damp. The burial
cloths unwind so slowly, threading
through the grey woods. The icy path,
all pocked and punched with the past’s
old footprints, is no help now. You stagger,
or go slow. You don’t see any crocuses.
In dim light, ice and mud, beneath
an asphalt sky, the yard depressed,
half-stripped, the houses dripping without
hope, before all storms are past, or all
is softened yet, the equinox
slips in and whispers something.
Long before the actual greening, or even
sense at all, but in the pit of loss, the dark
of turmoil, or its lingering regret, before
the tears have dried— the earth has turned
already. Trees in the woods are dripping
quietly. It will take some time, but in
your devastation is a voice, still trembling
from its own weeping, calling, ”Lazarus,
For those of you in the Southern Hemisphere:
Today is the autumnal equinox,
like every other day, unpredicting.
Without regret for what is not yet lost,
take in this day and let tomorrow be.
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