Mystery whispers truth into the seed of the soul of the universe.

Tucked under layers of winter-hardened soil, the earth’s children struggle to direct the terms of their emergence. How, when, where, why, wherefore.

I shall wear a yellow bonnet with satin tie.

I shall bow and dance gratitude to sun and rain.

I will smile at the moon.

With mother’s love, the universe sows her reminder in the form of late snow that rises in cold piles atop green sprouts.

Not yet, my children. It is not yours to choose.

Weighted in mourning, the seeds of potentiality retreat to the darkness of unknowing until the next season when they will be resurrected into the necessity of spring.

© 3/15/17