spring is a conundrum…

of new life, of beauty bursting from the grey winter deadwood…and memories of loss, pain, and a life that now would never be

not the same, anyway

not the one expected

that life is now the grieved for…

the possibilities and promise that lay crumpled, and destroyed…left behind somewhere in the wreckage as they pulled you, lingering son, free

my eyes wander to the flowerbeds under my bedroom windows, to the roses you planted there

they’ve had to fend for themselves these past twelve years

and they thrive…like you and me they continue on, a bit crooked, uneven…

what didn’t live has fallen away, leaving scars and bare spots…so much like our lives

but here and there, seemingly at random, vibrant life bursts forth

there is beauty, and wonder…

there are miracles


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