Each bright green of spring seems to be made deeper by the wave of silver washing away the cold of the past…
Each drop dying into the earth brings each seed reviving into a bright new birth.
The life inside me, frozen by snow, is the life that now, at last, I know.
Why love only flowers when each blade of grass holds its own glory.
They are crying with joy as the rain brings the stream.
Jacquiline Lucca ~ jacquelinelucca.wordpress.com
Another golden apple word that rolls with refreshing timeliness.
A new online connection. Jacquiline liked one of my recent posts, and I visited her site, my eyes falling first on this Spring Rain poetic muse. She kindly permitted me to repost it here – on yet another night of Spring rain with drops dying into the earth, reviving into new birth.
Tethered to this chemo chord again, I’ve seen it in less than bright hues. Cord of death. Poison drip. Death chair. Dirty dozen. And at least one more positive tint: infusions of grace. But when I read the first line of Spring Rain, it gave me what remains the dominant reflection of this insane, stumbling dance through chemoland: waves of silver washing away the cold of the past, making deeper each bright green of spring. Through death comes life.
What insanity this!
Not just insane, but inside out, grotesque, drawn-out cruelty channeling life.
So much blessing through pain.
Such grace through so much stumbling, fumbling.
Anemia, pagophagia, fatigue, cancer, pill cam, surgery, chemo, chemo, chemo, chemo…
Neuropathy, numbness, pin cushion hands, shivering cold, flatlined appetite, the snap, snap, snap of the pump day and night, mental fog that keeps my tomes entombed, stinging fingers leaving the keyboard undisturbed, red welts of bodily pushback, toxins pouring through pores, surfacing in red welts covering all, swelling lips, ears and hands, maddening insatiable itching, exhausted eyes unable to close staring at dark ceilings, thining hair, thining man, thining patience.
Insanity. Havel havelim.
Dancing in the dark, singing in waves of silver washing away my cold, glimpses beyond dark ceilings of deeper greens of Spring.
Sweet resurrection, the corner reached, the wheel turns, life for a day, or two, or more. L’Chaim in death’s face.
A path I would not have missed, but yet would never wish on any soul.
A dance with my own Shulammite that takes us to our darkest places and our most tender. Cables of love that seem ready to snap but instead emerge with renewed threefold strength.
Colors brighter, faces dearer, embraces warmer, mundane joys sweeter.
Each blade of grass holding its own glory.
The life inside me, frozen by snow, is the life that now, at last, I know, I know.
The wheel turns again, death’s door turns again on its rutted hinges revealing another insane wave of silver.
Let me dance in you.