Winter has a way of feeling permanent. The cold seems final, the bare branches like a verdict. And then — quietly, almost unnoticed at first — something breaks through. This sonnet sits with that recurring miracle, and with the seasons of the soul that follow the same pattern.
The Sonnet
The winter held so long I had forgot The shape of green, the gentleness of rain, The earth seemed locked in some unbreaking knot, And every barren branch a kind of pain. But underneath, where I could not yet see, A quiet stirring had already begun, The patient working of what was to be, The slow returning of the absent sun. Now buds appear on what I thought was dead, And birds I had not heard in months come near, The frozen ground releases what it held, And tender hope grows tangible and clear. So learn, my soul: no winter holds for long The earth that knows the music of its song.
Reflection
The seasons of the soul follow the same law as the seasons of the earth. Winter feels final when you are in it. The cold seems to be the new shape of everything. But spring is always working underground, in the patient way of all real returning. What looked dead was only resting. What looked permanent was only a season.
This is not naive optimism. It is the deep pattern of how creation moves. The God who built the world wove resurrection into its bones — into the seed, into the dawn, into the soul itself. The same Spirit who calls spring out of winter is at work in you, even now, even when you cannot see it.
If you are in a winter season, take heart. The thaw is closer than it looks. Spring has never failed to come, and it will not fail you now.
