Poetry

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Winter Wheat

That cynical tonic,
still staining my lips each spring.
Then I see you, upstart, show off.
The darkness and cold aren’t nurturing,
and yet there you are.
I need sunshine and warmth,
I need the earth to cradle me.
The conditions must be just so,
for my inner Goldilocks, my soft hands.
And yet there you are, nature’s sneer,
or harbinger of hope.
We buried you, when things are supposed to die.
Beneath the surface, in your grave,
something happened.
Life emerged, in the place we dare not look.
How did you make the climb?
You answer, whispering through my window,
across the unmade bed of my mind;
“The darkness too gives good gifts”.

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