In the dead of winter, even ‘neath frigid snow and the dark of the
early arriving night, a rose is still a rose. Though it may appear
lifeless, but a stem, thorns, and ravaged leaf…there lives on in the
ground a slumbered root…fed by the fallen petals of fading autumn,
later…the dripping icicle, and the mere promise of spring.
It is hard to fathom an end to an endless night…relief from the need
for constant tending of the fire…for support on the icy slope. Life is
cruel for extended moments in the hard throes of January and the month
afterward…a desolate landscape of hues of grays and mottled whites…Not
a fertile ground conducive to optimism and hope…But even then…a rose is
still a rose.
As I did last winter, and the one before…I leaned hard on a dried
blossom from the blossoms of summer…I recalled the first hint of yellow
green leaves straining against the still chilled days of March…the
swell of buds on the tips of infant branch in search of yet feeble rays
of sun…But hope made it’s shy debut along with the signs on the bush
awakening there…
And so once more I lie wait of a sign of the re-emergence of the rose
in you…of the spring that lies beneath a mantle of snow…and a
sprinkling of the frozen rain…Hope springs eternal in the faithful, the
love filled…the keepers of memories, of laughter and smiles…of promises
and heartfelt wishes…for an early spring…for the hint of green…for the
rose to mark the return of all I have had to only imagine since the
first frost so long ago…MLL
Matthew Lyle Landsman 
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