Spring is sewn in summer’s sweating earth,
a seed of an idea too small to see.
I walk through mud and wonder what it’s worth
to wait for warmth we trust will come to be:
After a frost, a freeze, a dismal streak,
the promise of renewal is a call
that echoes off the clouds and sounds so weak
it comes late if it even comes at all.
We sleep, we fall, we curl against the dark,
we dream of things we wouldn’t dare to think.
These days are hardly here, these nights are stark,
and yet the peonies are blooming pink.
I know that I am scared. I don’t know why.
We stand still when we really want to fly.
by Audubon Dougherty
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This is part of a series of featured entries in our first-ever poetry contest.
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