This hardness guards the seeds of spring…
such is the winter of our love.
The stiff dark trees will someday bend
their green–skinned branches to the birds.
The bare earth carries future flowers
darkly under a frozen breast.
Such is our love’s cold desolation
because all birth resembles death.
And we who wait the south–wind’s season,
humbled with coldness under the cloud,
know when the shroud of love is loosened
heaven and earth will sing aloud…
Wings in the leaves, and blue–bells ringing…
how to tell what the spirit brings?
Out of the hardness of love
the barren flowers, the fountain springs.
This poem was written in 1950 by Ellen Murphy, CSJ. A collection of her poetry will be published later this year.
The photo is of a yard sculpture at 32nd St. and Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis.
Today I'm grateful for: my local community, a day of rest, sunshine, tiny new buds on the lilac bushes, CK, MH, and visits from out-of-town friends. Holding in prayer today: Women caught in trafficking, FS and MK experiencing pain after injuries and surgery, ML, DH, the St. Joseph Workers, K&S, my Uncle Barry, Sisters of St. Joseph in Togo.