Why this sadness toward spring?
Half smiles at the first yellow flowers,
Tears pooling for not reason with each rain and sunset?
Each year this green show
blows wide winter's covering and lets us see
the swell and push of beginning again.
Am I meant to rise too?
To push away what leans against the door of my pinched heart?
Compassion for myself
is a slow growing crop,
however carefully tended
it yields an unreliable harvest.
ask more of me than I can give
this hurts more
than the pains of my body
than the old world full of sorrows
this offering of love
this unbearable git of another chance.
- Barbara Pescan