I stopped beside a summer brook
and could only see what the winter took
the banking stone was laid out bare
a few scattered lichens here and there.

But standing at my kneeling feet
one tuft of grass the wind couldn't beat
its leaves were calloused, stained winter-green
face shining skyward, labors unseen.

I stared at the gnarled thing
as the years grew thick in my throat
I couldn't remember its first little shoots
But here it was standing, with deep, deep roots.