spring in these mountains

is a fibrous season — winter’s

age-hardened fingers gripping the land

like the hand of a dying man.

after every warming day,

while the streams run full

with the blood of the melt, the moon

climbs a constellated sky,

and the cold deep of space

drops again to harden these hills –

how reluctant to open is this

human heart?

how many times must we hear

the quiet voice- we are each of us

crucified, all resurrected

none immune, none denied.

think of the dreams

of those who came before,

the great projects and empires

of the dust we stand upon.

the kingdoms of the ancients

amount to nothing

beside a single open and bleeding

heart – look to your hands

they were built for nails—

look to your heart

it was built for heaven –

this morning there was snow

on the trees again, and only now

do the birds begin to sing,

starting to rise between the branches

drawing back their wings, exposing

their hearts to this bright

and warming day, like dozens

of feathered crosses

ascending

J.A. Fink