On this day of the Easter vigil, I've been thinking about spring. A lot. I'm ready for a warm draft of rising air and the smell of damp earth. Two days after our last big snowstorm, the world is melting once more. The banks in my front yard have dwindled. The snowman my kids made on Thursday is nothing but a pile of slush and sticks.
Tonight, I will be going to church at nine o'clock for the Easter mass. A beautiful service of candles and incense and music. It will last a couple of hours. By the time it's over, it will almost be midnight. Easter.
I have a poem about spring for you guys today. It's by former U. S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins.
And it pretty much sums up what Saint Marty feels grateful for today. Enjoy.
by: Billy Collins
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
Confessions of Saint Marty