The winter sun shines with the determination of spring. A seed begins to fatten and swell deep underground. Its husk softens in the moistening soil and a shoot breaks through. It is delicate and frail, still yellow-white rather than the robust green of a strong, young plant. Yet it is undeniably there, and begins to wind its way through the soil - sometimes sideways, but overall upwards in the inherent knowledge that this must be its way.
Many who walk above ground deny the presence of spring and long for yesterday. "When will the chill end? When will the good old times return? No summer could ever be as good as the last." And all of the time, the yellow shoot deep under the soil below their feet grows more robust, and ever more able to navigate its way around the obstacles. While people above the surface speak of "blocking, freezing and pulling out," the reverse is happening below them, as the shoot breaks through into warming soil and engages ever more fully with life.
Those above believe they are lords of the earth. Their oafish footsteps, like the pompous beat of a marching drum, sound the words "me, me, me." Yet, underneath those self-obsessed feet are not one, but a thousand green shoots, wound into different shapes by their journeys and infused with the knowledge of "we, we, we."
Now the grass brushes at the ankles, a cocky reminder of delusion.