The Face of Morning

A morning showed its harsh and angry face,
And people stumbling through the slush were stressed.
They crept along, a dim and dirty race
To jobs that no one wanted. I was dressed
For winter. When I felt my worn boots slip
I wished that they were ermine-trimmed and lined.
My icy failures had me in their grip.

I never thought that in the snow I’d find
A simple sprig of striped and purple leaves,
Perfect, in answer to my thoughts. At home
This grew upon our wall. The spirit grieves,
And then a sudden morning’s smile warms some
Facet of our reality with love,
Softens the face of what we cannot solve.