The green returns
as sure as the sun;
the seasons keep spinning,
web-weaved by the One.

There must be a purpose
for the phases of the heart,
like the moon always whole
but only showing certain parts.

Shadows and winter and
stormy weather undesired,
but without feeling the chill,
what would be the motivation
to light the fire? 

What could wake, shake, and
empower my soul
if not for the thunder’s
inciting rolls? 

How could the beacon
so clearly light the way
without the shadowing trees
contrasting and parting
for the ray?

The green returns
as sure as the sun:
my heart turns again
in its revolution. 

Poetry and images ©LauraDenise