Christmas Perhaps

Perhaps

Its not dead

It is just sleeping

Barren, dry and impoverished looking

One would think it has reached its limit

That it is useless, tapped out.

How impatiently we wait to see.

Should we start hacking away?

Editing out the chaff?

Clearing away the brush, now a crackling mass,

A bonfire’s meal.

How long do we wait?

There could be some life swelling in there.

This could be the dream-time, the time that potential builds.

And without this rest, a new wave of abundance would only sickly

Trickle and meagerly offer from exhaustion more hollow notes.

The farmer waits. The teacher waits. The mother waits.

The divine waits.

As death and rebirth reciprocate.

As ice justifies the thaw.

The gums swell painfully and the child protests.

And the branches of my life drop every sign of worth.

Do I cut them and plant anew?

Or is there still something there?

                             Elizabeth Doshi  (December 2014)