When winter has slipped away
but the soil and branches are bare,
still empty of green and life,
we kindle inside us
the hope of spring.
we call up images of warmth to believe in,
trusting that life stirs somewhere,
deep and invisible,
summoning the arrival of all we hope for.
And we are right to hope:
This too, is our journey.
We call up images of the earth whole;
of lives fresh and young, dancing.
What is it we must do,
in our prevernal state,
while the planet shivers
and children are hungry,
to summon the leaves of new life
and new ideas
to these bare branches?
By what song will we call
the tender green shoots from the earth?
And who can sing it?
Powell River, British Columbia, V8A 4RT1