Winter Poem of Mystical Death and Divine Rebirth

The Spirit moves, breathes through cold silence frozen over with waiting, rattling the dry, dead bones of winter woods.

“He asked me, “Son of man, Can these bones come to life?” (Ez. 37:2,3) 

An aching longing for restoration and rejuvenation sighs in my spirit, yet not now seeing fruit upon the tree of this life— this life that is my own— I sense within myself    question marks grown tall as trees calling out to Faith. 

‘Put away the old self of your former way of life.’ (Eph. 4:24) 

I put away the old self. It lies upon the past like so many fallen leaves— Pieces of past dissolving into dust beneath the rain and snows of winter. Now is not the season for fruits, but for dying. 

“You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.” (Col. 3:3)

Feeling the old self dissolving in the death of winter, I believe I have never been closer to the Truth. I have never known myself to be so close to the source of all life.

“She is not dead, but sleeping.” (Luke 8:53)

My spirit feels heavy with the weight of invisible fruit. The pregnant death of winter about to burst into a new spring. All is still and silent. The soil of the myself is ripe. And I intuit what lies buried in this dust, this darkness. I feel the seed of it sending its roots, silently to all of my most secret places. But on the surface, all is stillness.