Last year’s wild roses
have not yet discovered
it’s spring—the brambles
are barren and barbed.
What else is there but
to trust that the green leaves
and petals will come? What
else but to stand in our
own barrenness and believe?
Last year’s wild roses
have not yet discovered
it’s spring—the brambles
are barren and barbed.
What else is there but
to trust that the green leaves
and petals will come? What
else but to stand in our
own barrenness and believe?