They say, “How dull and bleak
And endlessly drear
Is February – the back end of the year.”
They do not find, for they do not seek
The sun, the slow movement under the soil
That tells of fruit for the constant toil;
Nor do they hear what the still things speak.
But I am a lone pilgrim on a curious quest
To dig under the dirt and dust
And find something more than a fleeting rest;
To find a kind of simple trust
That brings an end to all my strife, and solves the anagram
Of how to swim with sharks that I have never yet outswam.
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