Spot

The white blanket sparkles and shimmers in the near blinding light.
A silent beauty wrapped in the morning, which should be dew kissed.
Instead it is shrouded in the cold hard beauty of death.
Why are we so attracted to white, to what might be blindingly clean.
Yet it takes away the sight and sting of the cold hands of deaths cling.
We silently admire its sparkle and mourn its corruption with a spot.
Yet the spot breaks open the illusion that has blinded us to the new life
buried within its mantle. We all have to be broken open.
Exposed to the harsh light ourselves which reveals the stain of
death that entered us, to bring life at our door.
The small sprout of spring resurrected in a single, broken, spot.