TRAILS

An edge of moon sways in mist
As Venus sparks below.
All await the blustering heave--
The final gasp of snow.

This wasteland, yet, is vanquished
To release the captive bud;
Under the blast-- that screams, aghast--
The crocus conquers mud.

For all that wonders, waiting--
For all that holds us down--
Roots twist in Earth and suffer
But blossom to a crown.

Oh, paths strange and ever winding
Seem sometimes lost to snow,
But we do not fear the storming;
We will not cease to go.

The righteous Son has tended,
What angels soon shall reap--
This seed of sweet devotion
And faithfulness, to keep.



--Abby Elizabeth Charland