Slow Season • Ann White

The power of the evergreen lies
in its long wait, surviving by will.

While the azalea grips itself,
strangling life out of leaf to remain.

The once robust star of the bush
flutters limp and churns to loam.

Modes of life, never dying weeds,
thankless roots which persevere till Spring.

Like reptiles asleep under a dull sun,
turning by instinct, tunneling under.

We dig, huddled below ground.
We wait, light-headed in the lull.

Our turn in the slow season
lukewarm, without appetite, blind.

We hold still in hiatus, the pause
of rebirth. Patience becomes us.