In seasons of ice and slush
I spend too much time looking
at my feet. Cautious, worried steps
in futile attempt to avoid
wet feet and headlong plummet.

But the icy stream now
babbles me awake; look up to
sunshine, hints of green under dead
grass and branches not yet budding
but no longer stiff frozen, flowing
hopeful hidden sap.

If the Maker of rebirth, of
tiny bud and hard-shelled seed
cracked open, of hibernation
end and unexpected warm sunrays,
has never forgotten during
deep winter freeze,

what has been planted,
cracked open, waiting to
burst
within my heart?

On days like this if I stand
in the woods can I hear
the sap running
to awaken green life?
Or is that my own life force
rushing in my ears?

On days like this I hear
You whisper
patience.