Renewal

Racked bones of the acacia stand

leafless, lifeless, deep into spring,

and every year “This is the end.

The sap has ceased to rise” we think.

“Lay an axe to that brittle bole.”

Then, one morning, at last, again

faithless we find a miracle,

tender on the high twigs the green.

One year, of course, spring’s power past,

summer will show the bony tree

still bare.  Now though give thanks, be blessed

in the reviving mystery.