Dark time of year. I wake. The sun
after much practice makes the morning

look easy. Sheer sky, cheering wind. I open
my hand and in it a seed, smaller than sesame

poppy, or thistle. No matter it’s winter
and the ground frozen hard, I can be warm,

the bleak of me gone. I can be soil, alive
with worms, all life to welcome, the length

of the day
I grow through darkness
I give myself
through light