Maybe today you will notice the leaves are turning.
Maybe you'll tell yourself that each one is a fragment of a page,
From the book about the death of summer.
You'll think of how little time there is left until the trees will shiver, with all they are exposed,
And the air will bite, like an eager creature
While your breath makes steam,
So that for a moment your words have ghosts,
Whispering in front of you.
Now, you know, the winter is coming and the land has no coat to keep itself warm
And no mother to remind it how to dress
But it will mend and make do
With the occasional blanket of snow
And a kind of heavy quietness which steals over it
Once the last christmas light has gone out.
Maybe you'll feel a moment of deep sorrow as you think of the frost which will creep one night
To wrap slyly around any plants it can, and take their small, important lives
While the earth is silenced by it. A speechless witness to a tragedy.
You'll picture the snowdrop, the first one, the one which always announces the beginning of spring,
And you'll feel a kind of awe that even now it is out there somewhere, waiting,
Sleeping in its seed,
While it gathers enough courage and strength to dare to climb.
Not only climb, but to a place it has never seen
Yet still believes exists,
(And we think faith is human.)
Perhaps you'll wonder if it really will make it this time,
To ring its small white bells and call forth the other flowers.
And of course you know, really, that you are the snowdrop
And even as the darkness surrounds you,
There is some stoic part of you, always determined to grow;
Never ceasing to try and reach out to catch a moment bright enough, to show you how to flourish.
Sometimes, you forget why you are even trying so hard to wake
When the sleep could just pour over you,
To claim you forever.
These are the times you don't know why it is written in every living part of you
That you must continue,
That you must find a way.
The way is so hard,
So gruelling But the bells in you are needed
And if you don't bloom,
There will be someone standing at a window, alone,
Waiting for a spring
That never comes.
They are pinning all their hope
On the sight of a snowdrop
Breaking through the earth,
And out into the light.