In the cold- bleak, life cannot be found;
away from sight and mind; it still thrives underground.
The more wintery spates one is subjected to;
the more one knows life will again ensue.

One can always through the darkness, look out;
for the renewing vestiges of life to spring about.
Not all buried gems start out the same,
Even under bubbles of icy glaze, if conditions are right,
one can find a bulb sprouting seeking to reign.

Soon like citizens gathering to celebrate,
colorful stands quickly thicken and inundate.
Blue and white bells, tulips, lily of the valley and daffodils;
with a colorful parade and symphony of fragrance
one's mind and life is now filled.

Even though summer and fall bulbs will display;
though more sparse, they boast striking, tall and stately.
Rip out these roots of life so they can't be grown;
But don't be surprised if a few still insist on being shown.

As the world toward life's truth will always bear;
even if one's life is a wasteland, bulbs remain there.
For even in the cold bleak, for life seemingly not found;
Away from sight and mind, there is still life thriving underground.