Coming on winter,
the cold circles overhead, a bird of prey.
The sun hesitates before rising,
crawls up slowly through the plundered trees.
The branches seem more supplicant now,
more clearly in need, and begging, reaching.
Yet look closely: the oaks already hold next spring’s buds,
little fetal fists, nubs that snub the cold.
They are ready.
Might I trust that within me, too,
even in cold and dark times,
buds of new life already curl
around some invisible knowing,