First Reply A wildflower in winter

[Braze]

It stood where plow and furrow lost their say,

Half-buried in the drift along the fence,

T'was but a scrap of color in a field of gray

That winter kept in patient governance.

No foot had crossed that pasture since the thaw;

The brook lay sealed beneath its pane of glass,

And would not let it's winter whispers pass.



I might have missed it, had I not once more

Looked back to mark the boundary of the land,

For there it was, close by the splintered post,

A slender stem that against cold could hardly stand.



It was no rose that summer hands would prize,

Nor garden bloom with careful tending grown;

It asked no favor of indulgent sunny skies

And made the frozen acre seem less lone.



The wind bent low to test it where it grew;

It bowed, but did not yield its bit of fame.

The frost had edged its petals hard with dew,

Yet still it held, unchanged in hue and aim.



I left it there, that small, unbidden guest,

To keep its quiet argument with snow;

For some things do not flourish at their best

In kindly seasons, save when cold winds blow
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