Day 20 of Lent: March 27, 2025

Rotted leaves and limbs

covering the barren cold dry winter ground

Ignite and the brush burns

Sending ash up to the sky

Where it clings to the wind—

Until the spring rains push it down

and leave it on the now hushed Georgia red clay.

Bare branches like bones raised

reach to the heavens in quiet lament.

The mountains and valleys seem to sleep

under a quilt of stars

which it holds close

as the late season frost

makes hope seem a lost memory.

But listen—

beneath the silence,

roots remember.

The muscadine vine twists skyward,

faithful as the spirits breath returns.

Blueberry buds swell with promise,

birthing tiny prophets of sweetness.

Azaleas, once ghosts,

now blaze with resurrection fire.

Dry bones rattle in the hollow,

not with death,

but with the rhythm of rising.

as life returns and limbs become branches.

An soft whisper becomes a wind,

the Spirit moving over hills,

calling out lies and proclaiming truth,

moving the world from near death

to a joyous dance

where the grasshopper fiddle,

and bullfrogs play bass

and robins sing melody.

The mountains exhale green.

Streams find their voice again.

And somewhere between

Good Friday and morning light,

we wake to alleluia—

not suddenly shouted,

but patiently grown

into a choral anthem of praise.