The joy that springs from hard places cannot
be shaken.
Although, it can
be stirred—
tears melting—
as hardened hearts unthaw,
seeing gracious the hand which withholds.
(or trusts it to be)
The work of reconciling the what-ifs with the have-nots;
The work of sowing unseen seeds
in the desert.
Low yields
year after year.
Yet hoping and praying
a welcome rain will one day come
waking seeds from their dormancy.
Tired hands, tender heart—
bruised and beaten,
beating still.
A heart that hopes
and clings to hope—
even still.
Ever waiting for springtime rain.
Springtime Rain | oil on canvas | original poem
fancifullove 