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 remember: 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: spring comes. 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?