The unbearable lightness
Of March sun through falling snow.
Bare skin burns raw. Softly,
The seasons turn, but stall.
Fat flakes spin, drift down deep.
Three springs ago, I was high up, high on a Swiss mountain. I ran far away there to mourn my friend Sue’s sudden untimely death on the other side of the world. The distance gave me space enough to remember her, to write of her life and living, and to contemplate the size of the hole I found she’d left in my own life. On Easter Sunday morning, the village band played hymns outside my window in a blizzard. We folded origami daffodils, and sang, gently, long into the evening, songs Sue would have sung with us.
Last year, Spring spun into Autumn, as our trip to New Zealand turned the seasons upside down. Leaves, not snow, fell at Easter.
This morning, as the church bells rang out, and hot cross buns baked in the oven, I rode a great wave of sadness. There are avalanches in Derbyshire, but no daffodils yet this year.