The Garden's Breath

Again the garden wakes to tender green,

The crocus stirs beneath a softened sky.

The robin calls, and rivers yearn to fly,

Their thawing currents weaving silver sheen.

The buds proclaim what winters can’t unwean:

That buried roots endure though blossoms die.

A chorus swells where quiet once lay dry,

The earth recalls what once it has foreseen.

But winter comes with knives of glass and stone,

A breath that scalds, a hunger sharp and near.

It strips the boughs, it breaks the marrow’s bone,

And crowns the soil in silence cold and clear.

Yet still below, the pulse is not o’erthrown:

From ash of frost, the bloom returns each year.