by Victoria Millar

Seeds under the ground on a mid-winter’s night
sleep with their dreams of Spring.
They are dancing, tunneling, settling in,
finding just the right place to begin
their sprouting. But first, they must rest,
gather to themselves the vision
of what they will be.
Is it faith--this survival spirit, this
willingness to abide, to seek darkness,
even revel in it, to be willingly
unnoticed for long months of the year?
I want to believe in my own renewing,
let body and spirit rest, refuse to exhaust myself
in someone else’s expectations, grow old
before my time, cast off, disposed of.
I want to be recycled endlessly, and flower again
and yet again unexpectedly, bloom into
a surprising color for an old woman, ripe
with wrinkled youth and vigorous beauty,
with twinkling eyes in deep sockets,
making them wonder
just how I do it.