Sacrament

We must suffer
before the springtime comes
So we can love
the grass enough
and look up
At the leaf buds
barely peeking
from the twigs.

The first birds
now peep
The morning glow
for the drip
of dying icicles
Is just now gone.

The first low green weeds
appear
Forewarning of warm days
When new beginnings
are appropriate
and rusty spades are shined
with the lofting
of pregnant mounds
of rich live earth.

I can hardly wait
to feed in the magic seeds
and watch 
The green spikes
and curled new leaves
praying to the sun.