Bless those roots
so deep they grow untouched by frost.
In the cold stab of a November morn,
dreams might be deferred.
we are only one inch tall.
It takes forever to see into the mirror
to realize how small we are.
as the temperatures fall I resist
the urge to compare you to a summer’s day.
One is fire, the other ice.
It is true, Emily,
Faith is a fine invention, and now’s the time
to draw it nigh. Winter has come too soon,
the flowers die.
the world is old and cold and weary,
but somewhere in a brown cocoon, a butterfly
is sleeping oblivious to the gloom.
Bless those who bear the dark,
never giving up…those whose cause is to keep
the world in bloom, to light the lamp that leads the lost,
Bless roots that grow beyond the touch of frost.