Holy Week Wednesday

This poem moves across my thoughts like a shadow on most days. I think of it when I am in quiet anticipation of a change. The tiny fear that nestles deep waiting to be transformed into spectacular growth. Perhaps this is Spring. I like to think of the seeds underneath the frozen soil sucking in air, before they emerge wearing their timid green.
Perhaps this is Easter. A final breath of passion that turns out to be not so final at all. Let this be a lesson to my fear.


Hidden
by Naomi Shihab Nye

If you place a fern under a stone the next day it will be nearly invisible as if the stone has swallowed it. If you tuck the name of a loved one under your tongue too long without speaking it it becomes blood sigh the little sucked-in breath of air hiding everywhere beneath your words. No one sees the fuel that feeds you.