My Season
by Carol Lynn Pearson
Seeing the tree
Beneath a baptism of snow,
You may call her barren.
But is it so?
And for all your watchings
On a March night
When the twigs seem dark
And the bark
Feels cold to your hand --
Can you call her fruitless
And so leave?
She smiles,
Calm in the station
Of seasons
And in the ordination
Of sun, and sap, and spring.
As for me?
You turn away,
Impatient with the promises you've seen.
But -- inside I fill
And pulse and flow
With the urgency of green.
I've a season
Like the tree.
And all your
Faithless doubts
Will not destroy
The rising spring
In me.
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