Each morning I go outside and peer
Into the dark soil of my gardens.
Watching for those tulips to emerge.
Each morning I think of you,
Each morning I think of life,
Each morning I think of things
Rebuilding and teeming
For a new season of growth
And surprising beauty that emerges,
Not just with the bud, and flower,
But with time and things being.
Not just becoming.

It isn't just the flower of spring,
And the flagrance of beauty on which
We feast, it is also the time
That passes, the things that change,
The season of abscission and recharge,
The long winter of quiescence
And consequence when so many things
Are determined with little outward change;
And then there I am, back staring
Down into the dark soil,
My eyes searching for the little hopeful
Sprouts scratching up for the warmth
And root-filling nutrient
Of a new season, another year
Of being.

Yesterday I saw one clawing its way
Through two inches of solid ice:
Its little green tip poking through
Just now touching its goal.
It was easy to imagine its
Relief after wondering how long,
How far do I have to go?
Can I do it?
I must.

In a few weeks, that little ice-covered
Fuse-splinter will explode
Into one of nature's
Greatest beauties, full of high
Red and green and amazing from
Its hardscrabble beginnings.

How little we know
Of what we truly are
Becoming.

03/27/2005

Posted on 03/29/2005
Copyright © 2026 W. Mahlon Purdin