The fragment of weak light just barely reveals
a moment of hope buried within me—
tucked away ‘til spring pushes forth the earth.
Bits of green disrupt the barren ground, for
beneath the surface, growth was happening.
We just couldn’t see what we already
knew to be true: the best is yet to come.

A season of slumber must cover the ground
Protect the process, warm the spirit so
a seed can take root. Beautiful soil, dark
only in color. It is better that
we cannot see, except for that sliver,
sun shining toward us; lighting the path up,
out from the depth. We aren’t in hiding.
It isn’t our time. We aren’t ready to
bloom to our fullest. We need more repose.

Don’t discount winter, she adds a glistening
blanket of loveliness to this bed in which we lay.
Solitude, silence, patience, truth—
revealed by nature as seasons chart the course.
Follow their lead, and the harvest awaits.
Bounty abundant. Joy and jubilee.
Spring, summer, autumn will come.
But first—we wait.

Winter—allow her to allow me to rest.

Originally published in the 2024 Poetry Diary by Sunday Mornings at the River

SDG
LMB #28