ManicWorld Magazine

melted snow still stains the ground below me—
splotchy brown paint. the rigid tree branches were
barren; their leaves had turned auburn, then umber
brown before crumbling to the floor in late november.
march was ascending, yet the bleak cold of winter
remained. but one leaf had burst forth from a fragile
twig: spear-shaped and lime green, it stood alone
above the fallen—the final soldier beside a desolate
battlefield. amid a mound of death, life emerges.
amid disorder and turmoil, hope arises.