Early spring awakens
memories of a deeper cold
and hopes of a warmer

wetness,
sprouting seeds and budding branches.

Gray trees on gray sky screen eyes
from all that lies

waiting:
the color of a million

flowers,
the feathers of migrating

songbirds,
the blossoming smiles of

friends.

Soon we will no longer look to the night stars to guide us.
Soon the path

will be lit and our task certain.

In the warming days we will plant our

future,
uprooting useless skeletons of

last year's harvest,
breaking the clods

of indifference,
carefully pulling the

weeds of

neglect
so

that roots can stretch.

Before the harvest moon rises and we wait

again,
images of still distant summer

days
awaken thoughts of a time

when
all is done that can be done.

Then the harvest.
Then the transformation.
Then the baking.
Then the

bread.

All we know and love is in this cycle.
All that has been or will be is in

this loaf.
Take it.
Break it.
Give

thanks
and pass it on.