There is snow on the garden.
Yesterday the leaves were dying
from wintry battle wounds, but
today they are frozen in mid-decay,
playing like a possum at being alive
(or is it dead?)
There is promise in tomorrow.
The snow will melt,
hydrating roots, soil,
birthing the green of possibility.
The snow will freeze,
breaking apart fragile molecular existence
clinging to weak sunlit hope.
For now, the only truth is this:
the roots could harden,
go dormant,
expecting the worst of all possible outcomes,
or they could open
to the beauty of blooming
under their own burgeoning light.
The chemical reactions
that initiate such response
have already been initiated.
Which way will the wind blow?
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