Lodged; but not dead.

Rest of endless winter wearily lets loose his grip
though bony fingers still clutch
as up through earth; death-shrouded,
shy spring forces herself to be reborn in beauty.
Against resistance,
against apathy,
against fear,
against lethargy,
against the odds of innocence.

Each new tender sign of growth
unfolds with divine pressure
to be enveloped
not just by soothing warmth of sun,
but icy blasts of bitter rain and razor sharp of biting winds.
So cruel.
So necessary for roots to push deep.
So bruising on tender petals that only seek to display beauty.

Now kneeling, lodged in defeat.... but not dead.

I know how the flowers felt.
I know.