If you look closely, you can see the buds,
little knobs of life at the end of distant limbs.
Never mind the cold. It will pass. It always does.
But not in this moment. No.
It is cold. Raw. The smell of salt in the air.
The marshes silent at the turn of the tide.
This is the moment you love.
The exhale. When everything is on the edge
of change. Ready to burst into life.
The season of the soul released,
making room, finally,
About this poem
It happens in the seasons. In love. In faith. Poetry is never about one thing.
The picture was taken at the salt marshes at the end of Cape Cod.