Longing for Spring

I have a bad case of spring fever, and it's not even spring yet. My daffodils are blooming in spite of the temperatures. They've counted the hours of daylight and confirmed it's time to lift their heads look for what the groundhog could not see.

 Bring me fifty shades of green, sweet longed-for Spring.

I'm not alone in my wishing. Take a moment and enjoy a few thoughts on spring and wish with me, then pop over and visit Heidi at My Juicy Little Universe for more Poetry Friday.

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It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. ~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

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Spring is sooner recognized by plants than by men. ~Chinese Proverb

I wonder if the Daffodil
Shrinks from the touch of frost,
And when her veins grow stiff and still
She dreams that life is lost?
Ah, if she does, how sweet a thing
Her resurrection day in spring!
        ~Emma C. Dowd, "Daffodil and Crocus," in Country Life in America: A Magazine for the                     Home-maker, the Vacation-seeker, the Gardener, the Farmer, the Nature-teacher, the                           Naturalist, April 1902

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You can’t see Canada across lake Erie, but you know it’s there. It’s the same with spring. You have to have faith, especially in Cleveland. ~Paul Fleischman

Ash Wednesday (Easter Us)

Blogger friend, Ruth at There's No Such Thing as a God-forsaken Town, shared this on her Poetry Friday blog this week. I loved it so much I wanted to share with you.

Marked by Ashes
by Walter Brueggemann

Ruler of the Night, Guarantor of the day . . .
This day — a gift from you.
This day — like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.
This Wednesday burdens us with the tasks of the day, for we are already halfway home
halfway back to committees and memos,
halfway back to calls and appointments,
halfway on to next Sunday,
halfway back, half frazzled, half expectant,
half turned toward you, half rather not.
This Wednesday is a long way from Ash Wednesday,
but all our Wednesdays are marked by ashes —
we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth:
of failed hope and broken promises,
of forgotten children and frightened women,
we ourselves are ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
we can taste our mortality as we roll the ash around on our tongues.
We are able to ponder our ashness with
some confidence, only because our every Wednesday of ashes
anticipates your Easter victory over that dry, flaky taste of death.
On this Wednesday, we submit our ashen way to you —
you Easter parade of newness.
Before the sun sets, take our Wednesday and Easter us,
Easter us to joy and energy and courage and freedom;
Easter us that we may be fearless for your truth.
Come here and Easter our Wednesday with
mercy and justice and peace and generosity.
We pray as we wait for the Risen One who comes soon.

The Lightest Touch

I mentioned last week that my son has been sharing poetry with me. It's been so lovely to share hearts with him. This week he introduced me to David Whyte. The poem he sent me is in the YouTube video below, but I simply fell in love with this poem I found on David's website. Enjoy!

Then stop by Merely Day by Day where Cathy hosts the Poetry Friday Round up.

The Raising of Lazarus. 15th century. Novgorod school. The Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia.

THE LIGHTEST TOUCH

by David Whyte

Good poetry begins with
the lightest touch,
a breeze arriving from nowhere,
a whispered healing arrival,
a word in your ear,
a settling into things,
then like a hand in the dark
it arrests your whole body,
steeling you for revelation.

In the silence that follows
a great line
you can feel Lazarus
deep inside

Read the rest here.

Become the Sky

My son shared this beautiful poem by Rumi with me this week, so I thought I would pass it along.

Liz hosts Poetry Friday today over at Elizabeth Steinglass.


Become the Sky 

Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You’re covered with a thick cloud.
Slide out the side.
Die, and be quiet.
Quietness is the surest sign that you’ve died.
Your old life was a frantic running from silence.
The speechless full moon comes out now.
                                        ~ Rumi