This gray December day,
darkness bears down
like a weight upon my soul.
Morning comes too late,
evening comes too soon,
and what light that comes is weak and faltering.
My shoulders bend beneath the burden of darkness,
my legs barely climb the stairs,
my gaze looks downward until a flash of color catches the corner of my eye.
There, in the south window,
a geranium is blooming,
its bright, pink face lifted to the light.
The petals rest on the windowsill,
separated from the cold by two thin panes of glass
and a cushion of air.
Not much protection for a plant,
not much daylight for a blossom,
not much hope for my weary soul.
Yet this splash of color is enough
to lift the weight from my shoulders
and make me smile in anticipation of light to come.
