Mid-Lent / Jesse K. Butler

The springtime here is overrated. Christ
was right to choose a warmer climate. Is
it really likely that he would have risen
so quickly, if he’d first descended from
a place like this? The backed-up sewers, the
decaying snowdrifts—everything smells dead.

Each spring my driveway floods. I’m down there, trampling
the solid ice the snowplows have packed down
along the curb, to find the drain. The death
of fall is heavy in the air, cut by
the thawing dog turds—one more scent of death.

I’m hacking at the ice. The stagnant and
disturbing water glups and slops upon
my clothes. At last: a crack and gurgle. Those
uncertain eddies slowly circle in
the water at my feet. I look up. The
receding snow holds little hollows—tombs
of winter muck. But underneath, bestowing
such unexpected hope, there is new life.

Mid-Lent: Copyright 2021 by Jesse K. Butler. All rights reserved.

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