Yield

Your words unfolded on a winter timberland
Where even evergreens lost their luster
Any semblance of life was frozen in slumber

A desolate landscape worn down in between
Weathered hardwoods without leaves
A sleet-soaked forest floor without green

For a season not defined by a tilting earth
But maturing perspective on what is worth
And turned by the labor pains of grace’s birth

With nary a prophecy or a sign to be seen
A portion of faith handed down to me
Since planted has yielded blossoms serene

Saturated with the most extravagant colors
Leading us steadily onward and upward
In a glorious green toward eternal spring