The riches of March have pierced the landscape,
bathing earth’s veins in the promise of warmth,
expectations come from the possibly flowering of
the countryside; the winds are melodies.
The thought that a heart could have fallen never to
beat again the seasons marked by hours; speaking softly
a promise to return as time and space were silent toward
a journey into a place that only death can relate.
The pilgrimage moved forward exhausted, pain seized the
helm of a sickened ship; a war fought by a spiritual soul as
the tides of suffering rolled in and out.
March the soul felt alive, the pain gone living more than a
stagnant lifeless pond, life flowed like a river long and wide
and hope turned into grace.
“Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. Memories are sweet, cherish it.”
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