Spring Hymn

The hush of winter breaks at last,

its brittle silence giving way

to murmurs of awakening.

Buds tremble on the edges of bare twigs,

tiny green flames

kindled by the sun’s returning hand.

The air, once sharp as glass,

softens, draped in scents of earth,

rain-washed and ready.

I hear the chorus rise:

a robin’s bright syllables,

the hum of bees rehearsing flight,

the brook rehearsing its refrain

as it slips free of frozen chains.

O hymn of spring—

you do not shout,

you bloom.

You weave your music in petals,

in laughter of children chasing kites,

in fields that roll out carpets

of yellow, white, and violet.

I walk where wildflowers lean,

their faces lifted like congregants

singing without words.

The hymn is stitched in sunlight,

folded into every breeze

that carries pollen like a psalm.

Let me rest in this choir of beginnings,

my heart unburdened of its frost.

For every choice deferred,

every sorrow winter kept,

spring answers not with verdicts,

but with tenderness—

with promise that life renews

though time is fleeting.

And if tomorrow storms arrive,

let today be enough:

this meadow of voices,

this sky unbroken blue,

this hymn that rises

not from lips alone

but from the earth itself,

eternal, unending,

singing us whole again.