The sun still shines.
Even at a slant it gives warmth
and light. It’s true, the buds have burst,
the blossoms bloomed out full,
the beauty faded, but underground
there’s the promise of return.
Ash and oak and spreading chestnut,
the maples most exuberant;
they know the drill, know
the disappointment of shady canopy
stripped bare, They do not quit
nor do they slink away to shadow.
Even the fragile ferns bend
to the wind and praise the tempest
for the spores it spreads,
and the silver brook still gurgles
though the season of freeze
will have its way with it.
Each winter it looks as if the roses
are gone forever; each spring
they bloom again. To everything
there is a season. Whether we believe
or not, they will return. Such
is the love of our Creator.