Winter Poem of Mystical Death and Divine Rebirth
The Spirit moves,
through cold silence frozen over
rattling the dry, dead bones of winter woods.
“He asked me, “Son of man,
Can these bones come to life?” (Ez. 37:2,3)
An aching longing for restoration and rejuvenation
sighs in my spirit, yet
not now seeing fruit upon the tree of this life—
this life that is my own—
I sense within myself
question marks grown tall as trees
calling out to Faith.
‘Put away the old self of your former way of life.’ (Eph. 4:24)
I put away the old self.
It lies upon the past
like so many fallen leaves—
Pieces of past
dissolving into dust
beneath the rain and snows of winter.
Now is not the season for fruits, but for dying.
“You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.” (Col. 3:3)
Feeling the old self dissolving in the death of winter,
I believe I have never been closer to the Truth.
I have never known myself
to be so close to the source of all life.
“She is not dead, but sleeping.” (Luke 8:53)
My spirit feels heavy
with the weight of invisible fruit.
The pregnant death of winter about to burst into a new spring.
All is still and silent.
The soil of the myself is ripe.
And I intuit what lies buried in this dust, this darkness.
I feel the seed of it sending its roots, silently
to all of my most secret places.
But on the surface, all is stillness.