Burnout

Old Easter lilies, leaves wilting, when all around grass gleams, palms dapple, trees fruit.
One morn,
they were shorn, chopped, bruised, green things, burnt out.

“How will they survive?” I asked the gardener. “The bread-winner leaves cannot work.”

“The bulbs will grow,” He said.
“Can bulbs grow without the leaves that fed them?”
“The quiet womb of Mother Earth and safe sure arms of Father Heaven have food enough,” He said.

Un-knowing, un-doing, just being,
seasons passed
in moons and stars.
Then a brave shy flower, a babe in arms,
heard the Light,
smiled colors bright, and Christmas dawned
on Easter morn.