I am torn by this baby’s birth just as I am
by the spring when it arrives suddenly
out of long days and hushed grays.
Greens push out of damp earth with such
promise and my soul opens to the light,
cautious of what could be exposed.
Springs have come before only to leave
me in the midst of barren winters with
cold hands and a faltering heart.
Something about this baby seems different
because, as he grows, light surrounds him
and life quickens even in the winter months.
My dirty, doubting soul reaches out to him as he
walks dusty roads. I am compelled to follow
as he calls, touches, and feeds.
I watch the ones who have refused my pleas
spit and slash him, breaking his body apart
before all of us who saw him with our own eyes.
His last gasp stabs me in unknown depths
and no amount of strength can hold me fast
through the death of this once-baby boy.
The heavy darkness covers us all. We must
have imagined the grace in his eyes and
power in his hands, desperate as we were.
And then behind me a single word is spoken,
“Mary.” My lungs fill again with air and light.
A spring without end has begun.