Spring

Walking from the field, snow heavy on my boots, the sound of water whispers beneath the thawing blanket so tenaciously clinging to fertile mother earth. Ancient furrows of past season's hope plow through frozen dirt, the veins that now flow gently with blood of red clay and dark soil. Patches of green I see, formed from lost seeds, sown by invisible hands as winds reaped life from last evening's sowing, before mother pulled her white sheet tight over hilly breast to sleep through winter's dream. Green like season's beard to be shaved before new seed can be planted. The gate swings easily as I push it, the snow has melted here. Looking back the awakened ground shimmers like tomorrow in the morning sun. Yet, there before me the rutted path filled with frozen boot prints from years of fading memories reminds me from where I have come. 04/22/2018