Summer has grown tired.
Weary of holding its head up,
it droops and withers,
turning brown and insignificant.
I feel the same weariness
deep in my soul.
Tired, exhausted at times.
Stretched so thin
I feel holes I don't have the strength to mend.
Parched for peace
and normalcy.
It has been a season of extremes,
a teeter totter
of exhilaration
and grief.
Joy as dreams
and hard work
have born fruit
mingles
with overwhelming sadness
at a hole in our lives.
Weariness seeps through my heart,
leaving me
tired of dreaming
and planning
for the next big push.
I find myself
wandering the prairies and woods again,
dead wildflowers
crunching beneath my feet.
But then I stop and stare as I notice a splash of color.
Could it be?
Could these seemingly dead flowers
have found the strength,
the will,
for one more bloom?
I look around and see even more color,
blossoms I hadn't noticed
peeking beneath withered stalks.
They are not as
magnificent as those
who came before in abundance.
And yet,
they bloom with courage
and tenacity.
They who live under the same sky as I,
who drink in the same
slanted sunbeams,
and watch the foliage turn to orange and yellow.
They who feel the ground
growing cooler
beneath their roots,
even as I now need a sweater outdoors.
They who were created
by the same God,
whose purpose it was for them to bloom
to the end.
Even as I
am called to carry on
and dream and plan and work.
The same God
who gives them rest
and strength to bloom again,
will he not do so
even more to me?
Follow Karen's Blog
Comments