This morning looks the same as yesterday –
the sky is grey; a fine cold mist is falling.
I still can’t think of anything to say –
no words to pray. I hear that dove still calling.
The trees are greening as the spring comes on,
though slow as dawn after a night of grieving;
the sparrows chatter in their careless tongue;
the frost is gone; the winter birds are leaving.
It’s hard to make believe it matters now,
and anyhow, what is the use of trying
to act as if the world’s not crashing down,
when all around, life’s swallowed up in dying?
I honestly believed that he would save
us all. Now what’s to do but tend his grave?
~ Rebekah Choat
Becka's Blog 