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We hear it often when it’s wet and cold:
the malediction, murmur, and complaint—
as if it were God’s job to scatter gold
down from the sky to please us and to paint
the world bright green: to stop the winter weather:
to give us always summer and sweet spring
and keep us safely this side of our tether.
But no, that wouldn’t work. Bright days don’t bring
us happiness. The sun’s no cure for pain.
Gray days are also needed and black night—
and the gift of tears, too, like golden rain.
Out of the well of darkness, springs the light.
Mull this, my soul, in time of death and loss:
no resurrection comes without a Cross.
Variation on a poem by Lucius Knightsword. (See here)