What do we do on cold mornings in the dark,
when all is dreary and unrelenting clouds fill the sky and fill our souls
with dank dreariness?
When the slow inexorable slog into increasing darkness
diminishes us, siphoning off the hope that we will ever return to light?
The air is filled with the scent of rotting things, the pungent smell of wet death,
and human bitterness.
The coldness seeps into our very bones,
as the frigid winds of falsehood and hate, whistle through the cracks in our souls.
We feel ourselves slowly dying, turning brittle,
ready to become earth again.
This does not feel cyclical, although we know it is.
We can barely imagine, as the hate and fear press in,
as the cold winds of oppression and greed rob us of vitality,
that there is anything left but death.
Perhaps this time we human creatures will go to far, and there will be no return.
Perhaps this time the grave will remain full,
Perhaps spring will never come again,
no bud, no bloom, no resurrection
of plant and soul.
Perhaps the foul and evil forces will win.
What do we do on cold mornings in the dark?
We breath in, and breath out.
We pet the cat.
We remember love.
And we remember what Love does with death.
that after winter spring,
that after death, life,
that after disruption, a new thing.
Always, a new thing.