A [Past Due] Black-headed Gull (The Weakerthans)

February always finds you folding
local papers open to the faces
“passed away,” to wonder what they’re holding
in those hands we’re never shown.

The places formal photographs refuse to mention.
His tiny feet, that birthmark on her knee.

The tyranny of framing our attention
with all the eyes their eyes no longer see.

And darkness comes too early, you won’t find
the many things you owe these latest dead:
a borrowed book, that cheque you didn’t sign.

The tools to be believed with, beloved.

Give what you can: to keep, to comfort this
plain fear you can’t extinguish or dismiss.

February is always such a problematic month for me, this hymn, shared by another blogger, does capture the heart of the cold and dreariness, somehow.

I'm grateful, though, for hope that leads me beyond these things, that takes me me into the Spring, the return of life, the promise of Easter and the joy of the promise of the resurrection.

Children are such hope, such promise and such a salvation.