In the bleak midwinter,
We plant seeds,
Because we know that if these rains are good for anything,
It is pounding the dryness and desolation into good soil,
And nurturing seeds in the dark and hidden place.
We know that Spring is coming,
Though the days chill us,
And the darkness hems us in at both sides,
We have a hope born of experience and expectation.
Spring sprung before
And it will come again.
And what is Spring,
If not the rebirth of buried potential?
Our golden hope on the horizon,
That we see without eyes
Is not something we chase,
It pursues us.
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