Poems for Spring: On Growth, Renewal, and Returning to Yourself
A Poetry Sunday collection to honor the season of rebirth- both in nature and in ourselves.
Spring doesn’t always arrive in sunshine and certainty.
Sometimes it begins in the quiet—beneath the frost, beneath the surface—in the slow unfurling of a body remembering how to rise. It comes in pieces: a softened breath, a tremble of warmth, a tiny pull toward light.
This Poetry Sunday honors that journey. From the sacred return after stillness, to the thawing of a heart once frozen, to the full-bodied awakening that says: I am still here. I am becoming.
Below are three poems from this season of rebirth.Each one captures a different way spring returns to us—in myth, in love, in life.
We begin with a return from the underworld—
the sacred reawakening that happens when winter finally lets go.
This poem honors the quiet bravery of those who rise again after going dark,
just like tulips push through the frozen ground.
I Was Meant To Rise Again
I step outside-- the sun on my face, I have risen. In winter I met death. He held me close wanting to keep me. But that is just not the way of it. I was meant to rise again like tulips, their tips pushing through the dirt after their deep sleep, I too, emerge from my damp grave when the blanket of snow has gone. Turning toward the warmth. Pulled and beckoned by some invisible force. I am once again, reborn.
But not all spring arrives alone.
Sometimes, something or someone stands waiting on the other side—
a love that warms us back to life,
a moment of connection that thaws what once felt frozen.
Roused Back to Life
I'd brave this cold long winter alone, again-- just to find you standing there when the frost thaws. The damp earth a promise of something fertile waiting to bloom. You put your hands on me, your breath warming my skin. My trembling body basked in the light, shining once more after that inexorable night. And the intensity of the sun, of you, roused me back to life
And then, slowly, the outside world begins to reflect the inside one.
The pull to rejoin life becomes irresistible.
Words take flight. Beauty returns. And we remember:
We are not only alive.
Our lives are the work of art.
My Life, A Work Of Art
I put down my pen and walked outside my front door. The sun bore down beckoning me to come out and explore. Words leaving the page and suddenly taking flight. I began to dance in the wind until I was bathing in star and moon light. Breathing in it all My very life, a work of art.
Spring isn’t just a change in the weather—it’s a shift in the soul.
It reminds us that even the coldest winters end. That even after stillness, something stirs. That we, too, are made to bloom again.
Thank you for reading, which one spoke to you most this season?
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With love,
Brittany