The Gift

Now stormy days subside, suspended sense
inevitable silence, once the winds abate,
As snow melts deep beneath the thaw-starved dense,
and branch-strewn turf, I breath a sigh and wait.

What am I waiting for? A wiped-clean slate,
As Mother Earth, from sunlight, bright, restored,
And all life great and small can germinate,
Each small-fry seedling strains to pierce the sod.

Can innocence charge forth where guilt has trod?
Can once-marred sands, by sweeping waves be saved?
Can drafts from distant stars affect seedpods?
The world return to manners, pure and brave?

We’re wired, each uniquely, each untamed,
The gift is ours to treasure or defame.

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