The ancient farming sweep ahead she sees,
While on her winter walk she makes her way;
The world is weak and wracked with some disease,
And dressed, as though in mourning, all in gray
The winter wind is whistling and bare,
Her heart is heavy with a load of care;
The steps she takes, somehow, are lightening
The burden, making things less frightening
The farmers, once, who tilled this barren land
Knew winters such as this, but still survived;
Some barely made it, others fairly thrived
And saw the verdant spring born close-at-hand
She walks, and feels inside, a life sublime;
The miracle who’ll come in summertime
To share is human:
