I almost didn’t recognize you,
dear rosebush,
scraggly and spattered with the snowplow’s spray.
I could see right through you to the white field beyond,
your stems like a barbed wire window,
your berries brown and puckered.
Oh where is the sweetness of your glory?
But if glory is creation pursuing its purpose,
then even now you shine –
for you submit to the season’s stillness,
preserving the life given
by your very silence.
You hold the seeds still,
and you dare to wait,
to take the form of barren thorns,
knowing the roots of your beauty.
Yes, here is glory,
yes, I see your face
here in January.
~ Lindsey Gallant
S. D. G.
