Small seed; so withered; so dry,
Yet, having a new germ within,
And gossamer filament to drift and fly,
Landing hither in new soil to begin,
With renewal growth and the equinox,
Comes the urge to be alive,
Deeper than hands on the clock,
Elan, the life-force, urges me to survive.
As if I were a cosmic seed,
To drift and glide on the windy dance,
Fulfilling potential as the inner need,
Living onward in nature’s entrance.
Patiently, I did the winter wait,
‘Mid blowing winds and arctic chill,
Sensing the stirring of that warming date,
New growth rewarding a perennial thrill.
Come, join hand in hand,
The blossoming renewal from the land.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.
