One from the archives…

bleak frozen winter
cold to the bone
cold like a grave
and empty

raw and dry
cracked and bleeding
darkness frames
my days

yet the sun
still warms
my face

the hard, hard ground
like a rock
yet still mere dust
like my heart

the seed will
wither and die
blown away
by the howling wind
consumed by vermin

yet the sun
still warms
my face

and a bud stirs
in the darkness

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