She

has

given

more than all

flashy-robed preachers

and religious entrepreneurs.

This place of worship, built from widows' mites: I tell you,

there won't be a stone left, pressing

down on another.

I have come

to set

you

free.

Birds are awake, and the clouds are dazzling white.
The trees and I have begun to thaw again.
The broccoli plant, forgotten, starts to bloom.
I've finally grown accustomed to the spring. This time, I won't inquire of winter's sleep.
There is a time to burrow in the deep
and silent mysteries underneath the soil.
I'll not begrudge the earth her needful rest,
but just be glad that sap begins to rise,
and leaves will soon be reaching for the light.

The

soul

does not

occupy

euclidean space.

The shortest distance always curls.

A straight line will lead you off into the wild before

you finally wander back again.

That is the long way;

longer if

you try

to

rush.