A garden’s flowers ache to blossom bright,
mornings cool, tepid days, a chilly night.
A letter – my own – found below the stone,
hibernating for months, dry and alone.
Winter’s last stand, it continues the fight,
nipping the patient bud of Spring’s delight.
I hid my heart like a dog a bone,
hoping one day too, it could be shown.
Not yet, restless one; you must wait.
Days yearned for are never as you expect,
whence hope can turn to ruins in the soul.
The season’s wrath, we cannot but respect,
for pregnant March buries us with the weight
of its snowy blanket, cov’ring us whole.