Without winter
how would we know spring?
How would we know the delight
of the first bud of the rose,
or the sighting of a robin
at the break of day?
How would we know
that we climbed out of the drudge
that winter holds?
That we have been transformed
from our underworld dive?
Without winter in our soul
how would we feel renewed by love,
by the awakening of sleepy cells
that long ago remained unchanged?
How would we know if we
passed through hell
to come out healed?
How would we know
what healing is?
Without the depths of our journey
How would we know we arrived?
Without winter
how would we remember
that not a spring comes by
without its promise of renewal,
its soft colors,
enchanting breeze,
its welcoming silence, setting the stage
for that first sign of relief?
