Angry at the Spring

Angry at the Spring

I lie on the earth above you
Wanting to be close,
Longing to hear your voice again,
To talk and share a laugh,
To touch and feel your warmth.

The sod produces new growth.
It’s greening up again.
Growth is exploding everywhere,
Spring is blossoming with hope and promise.

But I’m not.
I still endure a bleak, cold winter,
Brown and dormant
Like the sod draped over you that day.

And I recall that cold, sunny day
When you were lowered into the ground
And feel so broken,
So sad to have our physical separation made perpetual.

I wanted to scream then
And I want to scream now.
But it’s of no use.
You’re in the ground
And can no longer hear me.

Yet I talk to you.
I tell you my failures.
I confess my fears.
Tears fall on your earth.

I sit in my anguish
And talk to God.
I tell Him my failures
And confess my fears.
Tears fall on your earth.

I wonder.
I ponder the future
Not wanting one without you
But wanting one with less pain.

I miss the comfort of your presence
And feel so vulnerable without you by my side.
I’m exhausted from carrying this daily load
And miss sharing it all with you.
I think of you often as though you’re still here.

But your body’s part of the earth below me
And you’re no longer here, no longer a part.
The grass pushes up above you,
Greening up and bursting forth.
I hate the Spring, or this Spring anyway.

Bustling and forward everything moves.
Yet I remain unmoved,
Sitting with you,
Stuck on that cold, quiet day
When you were lowered into the ground.

(This was written Saturday, March 4 (day 81) during a quick, solo visit to Lindsey’s grave wedged between birthday parties and play dates. It was a warm, sunny day and evident the early Spring had started).