Belated Reflection on Good Friday

When the snow melts, the grass is brown. The street is covered in five months of filth. The salt and sand leave a white crust on the concrete, and I shiver as the cold north wind digs in with her claws, a final grasp of desperation.

The sun is hot--not hiding on the horizon, he's overhead now, and my car smells like all the things stuck to the floor mats, thawing and turning. Where did that banana peel come from?

All those weeds growing through the cracks in my patio brick are still there, brown and dead, but without the crisp dryness of autumn heat. Damp and wilting, they mock me. Things will be growing, soon enough; not all growth is welcome.

Resurrection? Resurrection isn't the reversal of death, it's merely the prolonging of a state of decay. Lazarus was in the tomb three days; how must he have smelled? Did the stench of the grave ever leave him? Was he haunted by it? Pursued in his dreams by the reaper whose chains had been broken, then forged anew and made ready for the inevitable?

Springtime doesn't begin with birth. Springtime begins with dead winter's corpse exhumed and laid on the table.
Decay is exposed. Rot is cut away.
Springtime begins with pruning.