Still

Not everything that is silent is gone.

I planted you last autumn,
a simple stick in clay.

Through wind and storms you held your ground,
stood tall and still, no leaf, no sound.

All winter long I watched in doubt,
looked close for signs, yet none came out.

I waited, searching, day by day,
for proof you had not slipped away.

Beneath the soil, out of sight,
you gathered strength in silent night.

And now you wake, so small, so slow,
a quiet courage that you show.

For growth is never loud or clear,
it whispers softly, we must hear.

And if one day small hands should ask
why patience feels a heavy task,

I’ll think of you, so still, so bare,
and say: not all that waits lies idle there.