The Withering Spring



They have tried to tell me

What I am to do

Who I am to be

To this world


They ask of me

To do what no one else

Knows how to do


Because of

My name


After cold has cut

The hope of buds and bulbs

After wind has shaken

Trees naked and left them

Blackened from the frost


After snow has smothered

Every blade of grass

And sent the creatures

Of the wood into a sleep

Which consumes nearly half

Their lives


They call upon me


I am to melt the cold and frost

I am to raise the dead

And nourish the forest

And save the soil

From the bitterness of Winter


But what if I feel weak?
What if I no longer can stir

Warmth back into the wind?

What if my breath is not strong enough

To blow away the clouds from the sun?


What if I wither?

Then who can they call upon?
Who if not I

Can ease away the ice and snow?

The Summer is too harsh

Too sudden

For the gentle

Sowing of my Spring


The Fall is too weary

Too burdened

For the heavy

Raising of life out the earth


The Winter is too stubborn

Too relentless

For the mercy

Of letting go


And if the Summer won’t soften

And the Fall won’t liven

And the Winter won’t give in


Then I

The withering Spring

Must begin

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