About the Rebirth

Never fear old friend, dormancy is also transient, 
same as your winter depression. 

When the year has finally yawned and turned upon a 
half-revealed shoulder remember the first scrambling moil 
of enchanting white snowdrops break our backyard drowse 
of seasonal disrepair; the first sparse and tentative spills as 
they appear uninvited on our neatly tendered roundabouts, 
spring's exploding over the curb's edges in alabaster petals, 
winking like children striving for the tallest object they can reach. 
Sweet warm honey and milk combined and dropped into the  
melting snow. 

The other day I nearly picked a bunch for you, my dear friend, 
but remembered, in time, how in your own garden you'd always 
prefer to let them shrivel back into the coldest soil, how you'd 
stubbornly insist that it invigorates next year's stock. 

© A.T. 2020