Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday, the day before Easter is here, and with it a dearth of sunlight. After the long winter (or seemingly long), there is light again. My husband saw a crocus yesterday and there are green spikes underneath the crabapple in our yard. Soon we will be able to open the windows and let in fresh air.
I can hardly wait for the opening of our windows. Hallelujah!

Waiting

It’s easy to know weather

when the horizon blackens.

Something new is on the way, 

rinsed in yesterday’s mood. 

The sun spins

away like a mad kite, light 

a shattered wine glass 

on the hearth.

What of the plot to bury

the yard in shrouds of white? What

witch came casting that spell? 

Has winter had enough of us?

Wait for the sky to open, to cast

its bluest eye on the yard again, 

rouse bulbs from sleep. Wait

as the bird waits in her egg. 

It is the season of windows. Hear

nothing more of falling snow. 

Wait.

Watch the sky.

This poem, on its face, is a celebration of oncoming spring, a cautionary tale about the power of winter to linger, but for me it has always been a metaphor for the way our lives are in flux and at the whim of others. When I wrote it, I was in a period of contemplation and feeling deep-seated angst over the political situation. Everything I had once assumed to be real appeared topsy-turvy. Everyday life seemed beleaguered by widespread madness in Washington DC. 

Even today, the poem rings true to the metaphor I intended. I see the sunlight shining through the glass jars on my windowsill today and see the kaleidoscope of colors. This reminds me that where there is light, there is hope. 

Yes, it is the season of windows. Soon enough I will raise them and draw in a deep breath of fresh sea air. I will sing the green corn song loudly and with gusto. I will give thanks for another chance for peace. I will write poems and make watercolor paintings. I will kiss my husband. 

Today is Holy Saturday. I will remind myself that every day is Holy.