Dale Lloyd

What do you see in the old apple tree
in the grip of the cold winter’s blast?
Snow drifted high beneath a steel grey sky;
and you wonder, “How long will this last?”

Do you mourn for the season
that just passed away,
when each branch was heavy with fruit?
O, how did that world of life and sound
become so dead and mute?

No leaf, no bud, no blossom bright—
no sign of fruit to come.
Just hard frozen ground
with death coming down,
and the heart wants to turn and run.

But you’re held by a faith
and a living hope,
rooted deep in what you know.
The strength of life,
at rest in the root,
is restored beneath the snow.

And after the season of rest is past,
the time as always will come—
when winter will sigh and whisper, “Good-bye,”
dismissed by the warming sun.

Although not surprized,
the wonder remains
that year after long weary year,
the once barren branch declares life again,
exposing the lie of the fear.

So even in winter, the apple sleeps—
its promise hidden, its secret keeps.
For fruit will come in its destined part—
each season shaping the fruitful heart.