In the deep of winter,
a coat of sable darkness blankets the earth
and all is quiet.
Within a mulch of soil and crumbling leaves,
seeds lie, waiting.
Their outer shells show tiny cracks that widen over time
but still do not give way.
For now, their lives are sleeping.
Someday, too distant for us to see in the darkness,
yet sooner than our numb hearts can imagine,
the seed coats will split,
and green insistent fingers of hope
will push toward the sun and return bounty to our lives.
For now, we hear the fretful cry of a child trying to sleep,
and we remember why we endure this yearly cycle of dying.
New life is coming.
The gift has been given and waits only
for the right conditions to prompt its growth.
Come. While the outside world is resting,
let us till our inner gardens.