Springtime in the Garden

Poetry isn’t my forte, but we’ve had the grumps, I’m reading The God of the Garden, and my crocuses bloomed yesterday, so I made a feeble poetry attempt.

Springtime in the Garden

“Maybe it’s a better thing
to be more than merely innocent,
but to be broken
and redeemed by love”
he sang.

But in this house
worse moods
compound bad moods
build on grumpy moods
bring out discontented moods.
Moods that doubt God’s goodness?
Or moods that ache for That Day?
Hard to say.
The tangled mess
blurs the lines between sin
and grief.
But what we do know is
it’s broken.

It’s all broken.

This plot of land isn’t big
but it’s ours to steward.
Yet through very little work
of our own...
Out come the daffodils
magnolia buds
peeking peonies
tulips, irises, lilies.
The periwinkle spreads its roots.
The lilacs bud,
readying for their shining moment.
The birch tree sways and sighs.
The maple sap flows.
Veggies begin to sprout.
Silver grasses, clematis vines,
roses, raspberries, coreopsis,
black-eyed Susans, hosta,
autumn joy arise green again.
And, oh! The crocus blooms!

So the promise of the resurrection
sings. It is written
in these leaves,
in these blooms.

A fresh mood emerges
through the fog:
Hope.