There is a Deep Story
that comes with every Winter;
A special hope and planning
that falls with the First Snow.
For what does Winter wait?
We ask this every dinner,
We wonder each Cold Season
what secrets we could know:
In fallen blooms and rotted leaves
on all the branches’ empty trees.
When will Green return, we plead?
When will the World regrow?
The Frozen Earth maps out for us
what Summer never sees
We huddle from the Biting Cold,
listen for words windblown.
Our bodies beg the Vivid Spring.
Our souls ask sun melt stone.
Winter is not dead, only asleep.
When will we finally awake?
A world of life repeats this,
its flowers open, birds come home,
Babies born to warmth will meet this:
Life, from dark’s tight grip, escapes.
Birth must many meanings
for Death to be only Gate.
As Winter offers none
but Promised Warmth to contemplate,
So all Life is story;
for All Life we wait.