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The Awakening

A Winter’s worth of snow is melting away,

for nothing living and new can Spring

from frozen soil. The white crystal kingdom

is becoming the watery realm of liquid rivulets and streams.

Everywhere beneath the sky is the slow, relentless

drip,

drip,

drip

of conversion,

while the sky itself

is breathing briskly with blue and white and winged things.

 

The living Earth is warming, waking,

in the light of the ever rising Sun;

the dormant things of snow and ice are dissipating

and, as they flow, are expiating anything dead they left behind.

Green spears will pierce the softened ground

and, soon, the crocus chalices are found

among the fading remnants of the shroud.

Where once the bare outlines of black and white

were all that slept within the hush,

there now will come the tender blush,

the violet flush, the yellow rush of blossoms

raised as from the tomb.

crocus in snow

Loose tendrils of azalea hair,

the fruitful blooms of apple, pear,

yawning, stretching open wide,

the ferns and flowers everywhere…

Oh wait beneath the weight of secret rest

and see the coming of the Morning Fair,

to which the universe and all attest,

the time perpetual and rare,

The Loving Heart at nature’s breast,

Who put the will to thrive in there –

Oh Beauty, ever ancient, ever new!

© 2018 Christina Chase


“O, Beauty ever ancient, ever new” – Saint Augustine, Confessions, Book X, Chapter 27

Christina Chase View All

I don't call myself a poet — but the beating of my heart is poetry. I don't call myself a theologian — but the light of my mind seeks the Divine. Who I am is a Child of God, a Divine Creation, a person devoted to being fully human, fully alive.

5 thoughts on “The Awakening Leave a comment

  1. You can say that again,
    Dear Christina!
    And I shall too.
    And again. And
    often, as a good poem
    should be said.
    . . .
    (Resurrection is still in the air here, so your poem is just right for sharing.)
    . . .
    It is wonderful how nature and faith are in harmony. You have presented that so well in the music of your words, and in the word-pictures, and especially in the ideas that appear almost without notice, as flowers sometimes do in spring.

    Like

  2. Abel’s mother read him a Walter de la Mare poem about Snow in a picture book. He broke down in tears because he enjoyed the story and ‘I want snow. I want winter again!’ When you’re not yet three, there is a lot of patience to be learnt!

    Liked by 1 person

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