The Center Green of My Memory

 

It’s January. Cold. Dark. Snowy. Wet.
The soil is saturated from a recent thaw.
How seeds survive this I do not know.
Except for hope.

The edges wash out gray and brown,
then white, windy blown snow.
The hope of life in winter bleak,
lights the center green of my memory.

There thrives the sun, the rich soil,
the seeds in the hands of the planter.
But for the center green of my memory,
surely life would wither.

It’s January. Cold. Dark. Snowy. Wet.
The soil is saturated from a recent thaw.
How seeds survive this I do not know.
Except for hope.

Post Author: tmhstead

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