It’s the season for believing,
and who can argue all this green?
Life intends to prosper. That’s clear
as water rushing over stone.

Spring rivers, stocked with rainbow trout,
call a certain kind of soul
to bait a hungry hook with hope,
while others fish for gain, seeking
to sate their growling pots of gold.

I’m more like moss—patient, drawn
to ruminate in shadow—but isn’t
that a slow summer thought?

Or should I sanctify the fall?
That fecund loss which leaves a hollow
in the heart to plant our grief
and grow another butterfly

so we might wing the world and look
upon all strife and find solution
buried in a bulb that blooms
the daffodil, who wields her sun-filled
victory as winter, melting, yields.