I am waiting for a green shoot
to come out of my stump some morning
in this unseasonable springtime--
December's leaf and blossom, winter's bird. 
Joy waits with me and I can feel its seepage
into my day and night.
My bones sing and I hear an unknown music
from that one place where, by old reverence stirred,
the vowels drain from a word.
I think of the marvelous flower that is to come
and how the light will hover over it.
Now and again though is the message blurred
by brief uncertainties:
I fear that my rude excess of watching
the green may be deterred
or that I have miscalculated seasons
or given far too personal a meaning
to glorious promises Isaiah heard.

Yet who am I to minimize the worth
of what a stump is likely to bring forth?

Jessica Powers, OCD
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