We spend such days as this
in the long gray longing
of spirits yearning for sunshine,
burning for brighter hours.

In the slow drizzle of cold rain,
we sense the pain of disappointment,
feel the dullness of dreams
that have faded in the long slowness of life.

Heavy clouds sag around us
and the fog closes in,
a drooping shroud that seems to say,
“There is no sun.”

But, if we choose,
we can remember:

the fierce clearness
of December’s harsh winds,
the piercing lance of January’s storms,
the fury of cold that made even February seem long,

the sintering heat of summer
when July’s long days left us wilted as dying leaves
and a brick kiln sun turned everything around us
brown as the drought-baked banks of dry creeks.

We can also remember:

the promise of seasons,
the beauty of flowers,
the blessing of fruit
born in the buds of slender branches,

that rain comes in the season of planting,
that the seed must die
before the plant can live,
and that harvest comes

for those who hold to hope,
who know that above the deepest, darkest sky,
the same sun that warmed our best days,
still burns brightly.

H. Arnett
4/30/14