and just below
somewhere beneath the soil,
Cold air sweeps us inside--our houses and ourselves. We burrow deep, desperate for constant sun. Numbed fingers clench, chilled shoulders hunch, cold faces scrunch, weak hearts wrench.
There, on that tree, fuzzy brown buds swell. And that patch of dead leaves, skewered by shoots--green, small, pointy. That one smoldering forsythia? There, too.
And that is what we can see.
Below the ground, the gestation of green has been working, wrangling with the darkness, the frost, the hard, the dirt, the loneliness. Seeds are not static below our line of sight. There is more here than we see.
We are wrangling in the dirt, scratching to poke through the surface, ready for spring. A time for everything.
We want it here,
We may not be as ready as we think.
in the light of hope.
Spring is coming.
"Under the giving snow blossoms a daring spring." Terri Guillemets
"To every thing there is a season..." Ecclesiastes 3:1, KJV