Thirty-seven degrees. A snow sky. Vegetable plants in the garden shops. The heart leaps, a bird peeps, returns to its fir needle bed.
I wish I had written that. And the life that led to it? Do you wish you had lived that as well?
A fondness for quoting Jesus — but crucifixion is something else. A crown of thorns. Nails through the palms.
Snow in April? Isn’t that unusual? Yes. So is your birth. So is your death. So is your flight through space. So is the universe.
A shovel is not required for resurrection. Neither does it hurt. A man or woman with a shovel, a child with a shovel, is resurrected scoop by scoop, right along with the worms. Or the shovel could simply be a willing pair of hands. It might even be a pen. Without beginning, or end.
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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet