January is sticks against the sky,
Bare enough to reveal that
Some Spring buds
Will labor longer, having
To push out and aside last Fall’s
Leaves that never fell.
In all their birthing fight to emerge,
Will the soft, bound shoots exclaim
To the lingering husks,
“Are you kidding me?
I have to overcome you?”
Yes, of course. Beauty
Must
Be pushed through a sieve of strife to ever
Be born.
This sky – white, forsaken –
Is Beauty’s stirrup.
To wait for a sunny day
Is to decide
Not to obey the
Daunting call to
Bear.
