On Renewals, Springtime

The ice on the river is breaking.

First a whisper, then a crack,

then a thousand silvered pieces

drifting toward somewhere new.

Snowbanks sink into themselves,

giving way to mud,

to the soft, unsteady earth

learning its shape again.

A child in bright blue boots

leaps into a puddle,

laughter rising with the splash—

a joy that does not flinch

at the breaking of things.

Somewhere behind me, a kiln cools,

its silence full of shards.

All that was shaped, shattered.

All that was centered, undone.

Yet beneath the thawing ground,

roots twist forward, blind and sure,

pressing toward the sun’s return.

Spring does not ask what was lost.

It only knows to begin.