Hope starts in small things
and becomes a river in spring –
the bright green pop
of a dandelion mandala
pushing up through the asphalt,
the cold March wind which says
hold on, brighter days are coming.
So maybe we live in dark times.
This morning the birds
and the crocus flowers
turned their faces to the sun
and sang, regardless.
Winter is tired:
she longs to lie down
in the arms of spring
among the sweet white blossoms
and the ripening buds
of new beginnings.
There is sap rising up in the bones
of this body, this land.
This is where transformation comes,
where shoots grow from old roots.
So the wind blows.
Maybe it brings change.
Hold on.