FEATURED: Spring Stirring
by Mary Folkerts
SPRING STIRRING
The sun shines a little stronger
these mornings,
like it’s determined
to shake the last layer
of ice crystals
holding dormancy
over creation.
There’s an urgency rustling
in the bald branches,
the chatter of birds,
admonishing on best practices
and placement
for building a nest
high enough to evade the farm cat
this year.
And I am split open,
like the warming earth
pushing forth pale shoots
like hands
folded in prayer.
Shedding the layers
one by one,
I inhale the possibilities
of newness
like the scent of spring rain
cleansing the sodden
carpet of decaying leaves.
The farmer lays out his plans,
pours his coffee
and over early morning breakfast,
as the first rays of sun
splash across the table,
he smiles at me in that way
that tells me, he feels
it too.
Winter chill has released its grip,
dripping down
the rainspout,
greening up the grass
that to anyone’s guess
was as dead as
death.
Lifeless branches like
frozen hands,
turn their twisted knuckles
up to the sky
as if the lifeblood has begun to
bring feeling back to numb limbs.
Creation hums
with the warmth of the sun,
and sap, like thick honey
begins to trickle through greedy veins,
swelling the bud to bursting.
This season,
where death veils
are thrown off for glorious flounces
of unabashed color.
And I am reminded
how the people believed
that death had won
that day,
outside the city wall,
huddled near the
crossbeams of a rough-hewn tree.
They had seen the wounds
left by angry whips,
the spears and spikes
of torture.
That the peasant preacher-man
named Jesus,
who declared himself
to be the Son of God,
had bled
and died,
there was no doubt.
They heard his cry suspended
between Heaven and Earth,
“It is finished!”
And the inky darkness fell
like a shroud,
like a benediction.
It was done.
The seed of salvation
planted in the dark,
sealed behind a stone,
bruised and broken.
As far as anyone could tell,
as dead as
death.
But in the dark,
the fallen seed awaits
to burst forth in triumphant life!
His shoots straining, reaching,
intertwining vines
drawing, breathing new life
into shriveled branches
that, as far as anyone could tell,
were dead as
death.
And I am a tree
sensing the breath of Life
stirring spring
in my branches.
MARY FOLKERTS
Mary Folkerts is mom to four grown kids and wife to a farmer, living on the southern prairies of Canada, where the skies are large and the sunsets stunning. Mary writes with a desire to push back the dark, especially for those struggling with anxiety and depression. She is also an advocate for those with Down Syndrome, as their youngest child introduced them to this extraordinary new world.
Check out Joy in the Small Things https://maryfolkerts.com, or connect on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/maryfolkerts, or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/mary.folkerts.37, where Mary will inspire you through her love of creating, be it with her hands, working in her flower beds, arranging blooms in jars, bringing new life to an old piece of furniture or stringing words together to create a picture or emotion.