It’s quintessence, all aglow,
its motif, with ardor shared
in dreams and hope and spirit,
it suffers souls to care.
It’s a source from which a breeze
breathes some fragile, fertile seeds
protects them in their furrow
fulfills their inner needs.
This source which warms in winter
flows ‘neath frozen ground; below
it soothes seeds that would despair,
cold, suppressed, they dare not grow.
Thus source with will pervasive,
calms, consoles such shiv’ring grains
with subtle, soft persuasion
“Seeds shall germ and reign:
To savor sun in springtime
and to sate the senses of
the hearts so starved for substance—
the hungry and unloved.”
And chilled seeds
(oft, hard convinced
that this source could guide them through
the doubt that clouds reliance on faith)
in courage, aspire anew:
Blind, struggling slowly upward,
they will break the ground, not fall.
In time they’ll change the season
and rise with the source that calls.
(photos courtesy of Joann Pensabene)