I am rooted in this love,

unable to change, ravaged by

seasons, but every year

aroused by spring.

I am constant, but not

by choice, instead by a larger

force that won’t allow me

to sway in my loyalty.

And though my heart sheds its

tears as if in autumn, and

though my heart is bleak and

wasted, as though in winter,

seeds scatter and take on

life anew, and my love rises

again, whatever my will,

whatever my sense will

tell it.

by Cher Bibler