Even in the dead of Winter
When the air is cold and no birds sing
I look each morning for some small sign
That Spring will come.
The buds that cling along bare twigs
Remind me that one day, not so very far away,
The rain and warming air will bring
A rush of new life to everything.
And if I pull aside the dead leaves on the ground,
Hiding beneath may be the green tips
Of Spring bulbs sheltering in the soil,
Holding future glories of color and perfume.
This is an ancient story that never gets old,
That even on a silent Winter day
Spring is waiting.
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