Illuminated
by the still-low
light of winter,
new green shoots
burst, glowing
from a dull bed
of brown.
The same low light
pours lovingly,
vibrant in your
pink tulle and rose
on your cheeks,
as you move through
the sea of brown
and green.
I guess I must be
the flattened flaxen,
warming the ground
so that you may
burst forth.
But I am also
the golden sun–
unwavering
and ancient as I
summon the spring,
as I climb and fall,
soar and set.
