three "a" day: an annotation

early march in louisville. not quite winter. not quite spring. 26 degrees at 9 am. snow tonight. 54 degrees and rain tomorrow. now, unlike leanne, i like the cold weather. but, like leanne, i am ready for spring to arrive. in part i want this for selfish reasons, namely, so that i can ride my bike more. and in a few weeks i can say, so that i can ride my bikes more. so i selfishly want warmer weather by the time my new bike friday new world tourist arrives. but the prospect of the new season is not only exciting because of what it will offer me.
no, spring, it seems, serves as a powerful reminder of grace. "dead" things come to life and grow. the sounds of the world change. such budding life can be seen even among the iron boxes of the metropolis. of course, such a thought is by no means original with me. as i thought of these displays of grace while watching the cars, bikes, runners, and dogs go by my office window, i remembered the following verses penned by anne bradstreet, a seventeenth-century poet. bradstreet's many poems gave voice to her love for her god and her love for her neighbors. testifying to her belief in the grace and mercy of a sovereign god who cared for his own, she noticed the divine and the acts of the divine all around her. what a way to view life.

"As spring the winter doth succeed
And leaves the naked trees do dress,
The earth all black is clothed in green.
At sunshine each their joy express.

My sun's returned with healing wings,
My soul and body doth rejoice,
My heart exults and praises sing
To Him that heard my wailing voice.

My winter's past, my storms are gone,
And former clouds seem now all fled,
But if they must eclipse again,
I'll run where I was succored.

I have a shelter from the storm,
A shadow from the fainting heat,
I have access unto His throne,
Who is a God so wondrous great.

O hath Thou made my pilgrimage
Thus pleasant, fair, and good,
Blessed me in youth and elder age,
My Baca made a springing flood.

O studious am what I shall do
To show my duty with delight;
All I can give is but Thine own
And at the most a simple mite."
(the works of anne bradstreet, 256)