Gratitude

I wait not for the rose to bloom,
as yesterday’s buds
already left a fragrance in the air I breathe,
And when the night’s cold touches my limbs
right down to the bones,
I do not fret, as my skin already knows
the warmth of the sun.
As seasons pass
I still can hear the laughter
of my youth’s reckless days,
And the days of mirth will not be forgotten,
I, too, was young once.

--Bernadete vdw, ‘25