By Siri Corson
Today the boughs of branches
nod.
The wood ducks in the water
bob.
The sunkissed
barren brush does
sway,
But March
was not
always this way.
Back in time (or twelve months
past)
Our land was gripped in arctic
blast.
An empty land devoid of color
All life and joy the winter
smothered.
As blackest ice refused to thaw
Within ourselves a line did
draw:
A pit within our human heart
That yearned for God’s most
sacred art.
I found that sickness in myself
My life stored on the highest
shelf.
I coughed out dry air, gray with
mold
That muddled up this youthful
soul.
I lamented out my window now
“Oh when will Yawheh’s spring
endow?
I cry for sunshine’s light divine
That birthes creation’s sweetest
vine.
Wherefore does this vine thus
grow
Here beneath a cursed snow?
It cups the flame of earth in
anguish
Which causes fauna to
extinguish.”
It took so much to shout lament
My energy was almost spent.
Don’t lecture me, I am no bum!
For my energy comes from the sun.
Like the lifesource in me withers
The seeds of earth do freeze and
shiver.
Their prison lies within the
earth
For me, I’d much prefer a
hearse.
To like a morbid thing much
more
Sounds quite dramatic, that’s
for sure.
At least my stories never bore
(I just hate being trapped
indoors.)
Thus was my trial every day
Wet eyes, til gray skies fade
away
But at the end of my frayed rope
There lived a light… who I
named hope.
Hope of joy and hope that stays.
Hope that dreams of brighter
days.
Hope that turns the tide of
thoughts.
Hope of our salvation bought.
Then metamorphosis divine!
The chirping birds like ringing
chimes
Resurrected all that slept
Oh! Empyrean heavens wept!
God’s promise not a rainbow for
An earthly flooded sea.
But all creation swooning
In a new soliloquy.
All that flies now paints the
skies
To make a place for fireflies.
The maker’s artistry displayed
Who formed the stars like
molding clay.
Crack and crumble frost and
flake
Creating space for roots to take.
Their leaves outstretching to the
sky
Exalting him, the lord most
high!
If only we could keep in mind
That joy will come within a
time.
So lift your head to thank and
sing!
This year there is a hope for
spring.
Siri Corson is a student at Fillmore Central High School. She is one of 13 area students participating in the Journal Writing Project, now in its 25th year.