It was the first full day of spring,

a gift he needn’t give, 

but he did. 

Hope was on my heart;

the warmth and the flowers would come. 

And yet, 

  and yet, 

more winter came. 

The work of the seasons is slow, 

it’s unpredictable, 

and it’s harder work than mortals can fathom. 

With small actions, 

others have watered my roots. 

they grow to a depth I cannot see, 

and maybe never will. 

And yet, 

  and yet, 

not knowing the depth, 

not seeing the roots,

all I know is: 

I am still standing.