Out from her apartment eyrie
she looked to see the stillness of the frozen lake
glisten like a painted screen through the morning fog,
laser etchings of budding trees
in solid ice, delicately veined branches
yielding bonsai blooms of frost
like the crystal beauty of a cracked vase
or a broken heart.

She shivered as a wintry gust
beat against the windowpane
shattering her reverie
as if to say the bitter chill which held her
trembling there would never end
but linger like an ancient curse,
lest freed from its death-cold grip,
she run to the One who rose at break of Easter morn

Who alone makes the radiant tapestries of time,
the coming and going of the seasons,
shout and sing together for joy.

“By awesome deeds you answer us with righteousness, O God of our salvation, the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas. … You make the going out of the morning and the evening to shout for joy. … The pastures of the wilderness overflow, the hills gird themselves with joy, the meadows clothe themselves with flocks, the valleys deck themselves with grain, they shout and sing together for joy” (Psalm 65: 5, 8, 12-13).