Bland and tasteless souls
Often pepper with violence
The salt of the earth
Writing a vicious cycle
In rehashed seasonings
Winners of discontent
The Fall’s harvest
Yet even sow
Hope springing eternal
And summers of love
As have know choice
In what sow ever fallowing
Spring is a season of hope. It may very well be no accident that the Easter season coincides with Spring. Spring is a profoundly palpable metaphor for resurrection in nature and inhuman experience a cross human history. That Spring follows Winter with perennial reliability seeds hope amidst the fallow seasons of human life and those cold spells witch bedevil the human heart from claiming its natural endowment of patience, hope, and love. Awe of the seasons of human life must navigate the epic realities of violence, proffered as both the cause and solution to all of our problems. 
Life coexists with death and death coexists with life in the undulating pulse of human experience. The fear, even hatred, of death presence us too hour rationalization of lethal violence as the irreconcilable solution to an inescapable dilemma. Unfortunately, such fear and hatred, blithely beating the conundrum of war and repression, is incongruous with the true pulse of life. Winter happens. And sow does Spring. The eternal question posed is weather we cast our lot with Spring or Winter. To wear due wee target our lives? Untoward the tender shoot, or effacing bearing lives? Either weigh, Spring shows up. Due we poor our lives in too the riches of this earth, even if not living to seed what happens, daring that life will cede us? The quest in is up to us. Will we lift more than a single finger to the won-ness of humanity? I, for one, will root for all of my tender buds to emerge from winter.
