The early days begin with so much
Warmth and promise. They hold the vast
Expanse of the world, nay, of all the cosmos.
We slip and trip and fall, but always
We raise ourselves and start anew.
Each breath, each step, each tingling of
The nerves within the skin announces
The start of newness, of wonder, of beauty.
But oh, when the days shorten
And the chilly winds come with all their
Howling and shivering, and the raindrops turn
To tiny chips of ice that sparkle in the
Moonlight as they fall, oh, how different it is then!
In those days, we've felt the pain of one-too-many
Loss, we've cried at one-too-many gravesite, we've
Winced at yet another injury.
Where, then, are our spring hope, our youthful yearning,
Our green resilient branches reaching for the sun?
Have they all turned brown and shriveled from
Unquenched thirst? Have they wilted from a life
Too long, too hard, yet seemingly all too brief?
Have they crumbled and cracked and sunk into
The earth from whence they came: hiding, hibernating,
And recharging, one day to grow again?