Spring comes to all. She
has no concept of time, but
gets here in the end.

She will come for you;
this comes from one who is still 
waiting to be graced. 

Maybe we are buds
waiting to be blossoms, to 
be pink or white rain. 

The rain that falls,
kisses cheeks like lovers’ lips
on other lovers’ lips.

Or we are flowers
blooming the way the sun splits
dawn horizons. 

Maybe we are seeds
hibernating; dormant. While
Winter months draw sleep. 

She will come for us,
open hands and glowing cheeks;
a smile incarnate. 

She speaks like light, like
she and you and I are one 
in the world. She says

“You’re trees growing, or 
blossoms blooming, or flowers
just waiting to die.

But like phoenixes, 
come the springtime you will rise
from your once ashes.

Who you have been will 
nourish who you will be if
only you let it.

And some of you here
will never have need of me
again after this.” 

This she says like birds
who have forgotten how to
sing their favourite songs. 

Spring loves like we do; 
we are all her children - she
loves to watch us grow

But she hates it too - 
do not hate her for that, she 
is a mother first. 

So she holds on with
her hands of light, so heavy
with love. She forgets. 

And Spring does not have
any concept of time; she’ll
get here in the end.