Shoots of Spring

I was a young idealist.

I thought the world could change,

That green shoots of spring would emerge

From the dark frosty ground.

If I could just say the right words

Then people would hear;

Their minds and hearts would open

To the suffering they now ignore.

The world could be better

If people came together,

Joined hands

Sang the sweet notes of unbroken song.

The wrongs would be right.

A round table with no head or place of honor,

Where all humanity could sit,

Equally and joyfully.

But now I am no longer young

The painful approach of middle age

Creeps up silently in my sleep

A shadow overhanging my bed.

Am I still an idealist?

Do I believe that wrongs will be made right?

That a round table with no head

Will one day join all humanity?

No

And yes

A smaller vision takes hold.

No longer do I see the green shoots

Spring from the frosty ground.

Darkness attempts to grasp my hand.

But I see the brightness

In the smile of the child

Who has run so far from home

That no one remembers his name.

But I remember.

His mother grasps his hand,

Cradles his soft hair on her shoulder.

Comforts his crying,

Wipes the tears from his eyes.

“Thank you,” She tells me.

“For being there when I needed you.”

“For caring about me and my son.”

“For the roof and the kitchen.”

And then I remember.

My idealism has not faded with age.

It just seems that it 

Might have become a little

Smaller. 

I wipe a tear from my own eye,

But it’s no longer a tear of pain.

Rather, it’s a tear of happiness.

I dry it before she notices.

I gaze on this humble scene,

And a shoot of spring

Breaks through the dark frosty ground

Of my own soul.