the season of resurrection
Spring has finally arrived in our part of the world. Everywhere I turn, color bursts from greyed, barren branches and forgotten fields. Even my skin is different, now pink with sunlight, toes exposed to the
the gardener
          Even now I can feel him. Hands buried in my heart, reaching deep to upturn old, unwanted roots, roots long hidden from the light, fooling me of their power to grow
“if we don’t feel the death, do we feel the resurrection?”
Life’s been hell these last several months, turned up-side-down as they say, whoever they are — although heart-inside-out-and-shred-like-spaghetti might be more like it.  I know this might seem melodramatic to you who read the more