Buried

When spring came late - no,
when spring didn't come at all this year, my heart corresponded to the season.

I mean, I see little rays of green emerging from earth, you could call that spring,
but when did I smell the coming of life in the air or hear the thunder tell me of an imminent rain?

And the hopeful pieces of me feel as unaccompanied as the slivers of green caked by dirt and winter-dried leaves. I never felt the rain, I never got to drink my fill. I'm lost, my mouth forced to breath above ground, pushed up late. I don't know my future. Don't know my way.

Where's the springtime I was waiting for?
Why didn't renewal come to me?

Let me come out of these days alive,
even if hope isn't in the air.

May my roots be deep,
Jesus lift me out of the dark ground,
raise me from my burial.

You are the only constant, no matter what season is missed, no matter what season I'm in.

I need help to turn my face to the sun again.