First came Spring—
All rose-red and morning glory!
And then a mild Winter.
But the frost of futility could not reach
The River that sustains us.
And now, my dear,
At the end of the story—
I anticipate those Summer years to come:
When we turn gold like wheat
Ripe for the harvest.
There is no need to fear the farmer of us all.
For I am told that love never dies…
It just grows older and hides
On the other side of Fall.
More at http://about.me/dklawitter.