Jack-in-the-Pulpit

There's a mystical, magical

secret place in my garden

where an ardent believer

returns unerringly year

upon following year

to express his faith

in the enduring certainty

of nature's irrepressible

commitment to thriving 

life.  While all is barren,

bereft of the symbols of

rebirth, expectation hangs

on the very air all breathe,

and then, suddenly he

appears, to convince us

that yet again and into

the eternity of the future

while time erodes the present,

there exists sound reason

to remain alert to the promise

for fortune's elder sister

nature, deems it so.