not everything survives the winter.
spring is a season of violence:
the seed cracks. the egg shatters.
the earth is broken. the bud is torn.
so it is, and so it always was,
destruction before beauty.
now it comes to me–
what must I allow to break
to let the bloom unfold?
what must I let die
to see another season?
poem (c) 2017 D. Ohlandt
please only reprint in entirety and with credit given
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