Rebirth
Spring is imminent,
but the salt marshes
are not aware, for
the air is cold and drear.
Patchwork of tan and gray
stretches toward the sea,
cattails and reeds bend east
in a still chilly wind.
Bayberry and rosa rugosa,
blackened as if by fire,
huddle together, backdrop
for frost bitten sedges
decorated here and there
with shiny spills, silver pools
left by the last high tide,
reflecting the emptiness
of a white winter light.
And still the marshes sleep,
waiting for a length of days
warmed by a stronger sun
to stir them from their long nap,
for juices to flow into
stiff, arthritic stems,
for leaves to branch out,
filling the marshes again
with a hundred shades of green
and buds of latent flowers.
Once again the process begins,
The unending work of rebirth.
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