The Forest

It's winter again, with a dream of spring.

I stand with shaky feet on the cold loose soil.

Bare branches reaching for a sky I cannot touch,

Roots drinking quietly beneath the frost.

Storms have fallen,

trees split.

I sway, 

Absorb, endure, and wait.

From the soil of pain,

tiny shoots rise up..

Green, stubborn, unafraid.

Dry leaves carpet the ground

And feed the roots of what will rise again.

I am not whole

but life pulses in me,

Silent, steady, unstoppable.

Seasons will turn.

Time will pass.

And when the sun finds me again,

I will bloom

not because I am perfect,

but because I am alive.

--_--