The green tendrils are extended, waiting. Months go by. Hope fades with little sign of life. Is it but a plastic imitation?
December is the cold season of waiting. Is it our losses that populate our darkness – a loved one? our health? a job? Is it the passage of time and our aging we grieve, as we await earth’s turning and the arrival of new light?
Is our inner landscape really desert dry, or is the impatience of waiting the signature of a gestation that one day, unannounced, delivers a cascade of sunrise pink blooms and a rebirth of possibilities?
sacredlead 