Like Sunshine from behind the Clouds,
The Redbuds are blooming,
And the ache rumbles in my heart like Thunder.


Here in the southeast, spring came early this year, pulled along into mid-February by a mild winter. We have had leaves on the weeping willow for weeks now, and the yard already desperately needs mowing. My parents both loved to be outside, and spring was a type of religious experience for them, tangible evidence of inevitable beauty and goodness no matter the preceding cold darkness. I find myself missing them even more than usual this time of year. I wrote the above poem almost a year after Daddy died and what would turn out to be about 6 weeks before Mama would. Five years later, the emotion still runs true.

Our plum tree on the 24th of February:


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