Sometimes
in the spring
out walking
I get the feel
that the earth itself is speaking,
that it has its own language,
written in ice
each puddle in the dirt road
its own sentence
made new with meaning
each morning.
I think it is saying that we
can also be this resilient
remade and renamed after
the melt or crush of a day
simply with cold and the sleep that follows
and
the slow bond
of one element to itself
over and over and over
until made beautifully, fragilely whole again
and ready to say
something true
about the world.
I distinctly remember, as a young boy, purposely stepping on those kinds of ice patches while out exploring with my friends…the feel and sound of the crunch. I reckon it is time to look closely and find out what the earth is sharing in each patch of ice, mud or water I encounter now. Perhaps I can ask my two grandsons…7 and 4…to translate.