After so many years in New England: you would think
I would know by now. Spring begins, flowers bloom,
The sun comes out, then runs away. Snow falls.
A flower that has spent its whole life pushing
Up through the soil, toward sun, toward itself,
Toward its own flower-ness: it didn’t do the work
Only to be frozen out, wilted. Who wants to stand
In the cold damp, waiting for something warmer?
Who wants icicles drizzled on one’s finery?
But the blossoms you can see are only the top
Third of the plant. The bottom third is root,
Deep in the hard, cold soil, holding on, taking in
Sustenance, the stuff of life. The middle, compressed
At the soil line, invisible: that is the tough mind and soul
Of the flower: resistance, resilience, hard unyielding patience.