Still Winter

It is still winter,
the trees are stripped bare.

I wanted them to call me,
to shed the things I don’t need,
to shed the withered practice,
that stifles and eats the things
that are being born in secret hiding.

I am waiting in darkness, barrenness,
for warmth, green, bursting new life,
to come up rejoicing.

I want to be born anew!
Immersed by disciples
dunking me in the cool cleansing river.

I want the green shoots to spring,
pushing to the light,
tumbling, long, flowing,
like the furry ever-growing plant in my bathroom.

But it is still winter.
The grey clouds hang oppressive overhead,
and I am still shaking off my autumn withered leaves.