Adaptation

It is a golden brown dawn It is spring, snow is all melt gone The grass is sprouting with weary patchy green I wonder how it survived the harsh winter grin? The grass was covered under snow pile No air was there underneath the white sheath How did it breathe? No sunlight pierced through the soil beneath That's why the grass looks tired and it has brown pith Scientists say this is hibernation I would say aspiration to live under the cloud of hardship I wish I had that adaptation skill And a place inside your cold heart to revive when your apathy destroys my somber will, my desire to live.