It’s difficult to adequately express how I feel about this poem. Written by my daughter, for me it is almost beyond comprehension to understand a time in her life when getting out of bed each day was a challenge. To watch her blossom, heal, and come back to life, this speaks volumes to her resilience and fortitude, and most importantly, the gift of self forgiveness.
When the Earth Colors Itself Back In
If not for winter’s long and hollow breath,
the darkened dawns, the bone-deep chill,
how would we ever learn to marvel
at the way the earth remembers color?
The light returns not all at once,
but tenderly — as if the sun,
half shy, half sure,
lifts the veil from morning’s face.
Soft upon our skin, it lingers,
warming the places frost forgot,
filling our lungs with air reborn.
We were never meant for endless cold,
nor for days sealed shut in shadow.
Easter comes like a quiet guest,
slipping through the thawing soil
to remind us:
the seeds we buried in yesterday’s ground
never stopped believing in bloom.
Even the dimmest spring morning
outshines the proudest winter noon.
Even the barest tree hums a brighter song
than silence ever could.
And four months past the glittered noise
of Christmas fires and ribboned gifts,
this day returns to us — simple, unadorned,
a day that asks not for more, but for meaning.
No hands must shape it the same,
no hearts must hold it alike.
There is no one path, no holier name,
only the quiet permission
to honor what is —
the turning, the soft unfurling,
the grace of beginning again.
Easter is the earth’s own whisper:
Thank you for staying, through the cold.
Thank you for trusting light would return.
And now that it has,
we are invited —
to sit with the light,
to marvel at the bloom,
to gather the quiet grace of this day,
and carry it gently,
tucked within us,
for when we meet winter once again.
B-
