“And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.” - Dylan Thomas, And Death Shall Have No Dominion
So spring rises, smiling that knowing and mischievous way. Did you doubt? She tosses her flower-crowned hair. Did you not know…
…that death shall have no dominion?
Spring’s coming in the mountains is a long procession of small wonders—often so small that we tend to doubt their existence at all. Winter holds fast, and springtime here is mostly dismissed as an unfortunate winterly relative, neither quite winter but neither yet spring…at least not in the abundant sense of the season. And yet we watch as the snow is absorbed into sun-kissed rock, and we lengthen our days with the light. Slowly. Surely. Our slumber shaken, we learn to look and live and wonder yet again.
The annual dawn.
The yearly triumph.
The season of redemption made visible, of hope felt warm upon our skin.
The pasque flower arrives, marveling that we should wonder at her presence every spring. Did you not know…
…that death shall have no dominion?
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