Winter in the garden
Hard to rest on the cold hard ground
No downy beds of clover or soft mossy banks
No soft whispers in the brittle air
Cold sunshine filters through bare branches.
Longing for the taste of summer fruit
Eyes searching for a single blade of green
Fingers numb from pushing back the snow drifts
In futile searches for one early crocus.
Only love can force those bulbs
To burst forth in a riot of beautiful color
Only love can lengthen the days
And melt the snow that stems the spring.
Only sweet tenderness can coax the vine
From dormant seeds to risk blossoming
As if to fear no frost in its delicate reaching
For tendril’s hold and warming limbs.
How does winter hold hope that spring will come?
Fields frozen, endless days of night.
Does the dryad murmur in her dreams
That the time will come for leaves of green?
The birds will call from limb to limb,
“Come to me. Come to me”
Their feathered nests will sing with life
With flowers to perfume their flight.
© Stacie Ferrante
3-5-09
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