Peeking above the dead grass and icy shadows
Comes that which I planted in hope last fall.
A promise to myself that winter will not last forever.
That springtime will heed my call.
Yet as the days are passing
and the snow keeps falling in the night
I wonder when the promised blooms
will poke their violet hues towards the light.
Will the sunny daffodils brighten Easter morn?
For now, it seems the wait will never end.
All of this fasting and waiting, mostly in hope
for the seasons of earth have not failed.
I know that spring will come, and summer too,
but I cannot look at the calendar and say with certainty, “Then.”
The end of grief and darkness is gladness,
The Easter joy that follows after Lent.
A season of grief is upon us,
an invisible fight for which we see no finale.
The harvest of this season is yet to be seen,
Then we shall have a fantastic feast, hopes fruition.