Spring Is Not Gentle
by Sarah Spradlin
SPRING IS NOT GENTLE
Spring has calluses and
dirty fingernails.
Her favorite colors are not pastels,
and she does not wear tulle or
know what a doily is.
Spring is a wild woman,
a busybody with twigs in her hair,
who sings too loudly and
doesn’t apologize
for how many dandelions sprouted
in your lawn this year.
Spring shepherds the brutal deluge
of our un-bottled tears
and strings the salt of our sorrows
like pearls around her neck
before going to work
the furrowed fields of lament
where flood waters haunt us and bear witness
to the violence of resurrection.
After she wakes up the whole wood,
Spring will go down to the river
and be baptized
under the stagnant tide
then slip away
leaving behind
tightly tucked quilts
of soil and seeds.
She feels through the flotsam
for a treasured token we abandoned,
trapped in a tomb of tangled roots,
like a headstone for the faith
we buried there.
She carries her salvage back like an olive branch
and triumphantly sticks it on our mantle
as a silent testament to what is true:
when we remain with what was lost,
we will be the first
to glimpse the restoration
of all things.
She takes leave of us abruptly—
about the time we’ve decided
we like having her around,
she plants muddy footprints
on freshly mopped floors,
blesses the threshold meant to keep her out,
and, eyes twinkling, says,
Enjoy the mess.
We try not to worry,
try not to run after her.
She’ll be back again,
when we least expect her,
and she won’t bother knocking.
We come to know Spring best
by what she’s left behind:
In her wake,
we’ll whisper about
the wildflowers she planted
to bind up the scars
of her earth-worked wounds.
We learn to love the life she sowed
with hardened hands,
unleashing blazing blossoms
to thaw the icebound, barren meadows
where our hopes hibernated.
Spring swamps us, and,
like all the grief we carry,
changes the landscape.
But Spring also braves our winter-wounds,
washes our feet,
and invites us to feast,
anointing us with
untamed hope,
so we, like the trees,
might wake up and watch
good things grow
out of garden graves.
SARAH SPRADLIN
Sarah is a farmer and storyteller raised in Georgia. Now, she lives in Central America where she's worked in cross-cultural ministry since 2020, which, at the end of the day, boils down to planting things, talking to people, and writing poetry on long bus rides. Her poetry has been published with Story Embers, Kingdom Pen, and Ekstasis, and you can read more of her work on her Instagram: @sarah.spradlin.