The red-fingered hands of bleeding hearts
reach up for the pearls of rain that scatter
themselves on its baby leaves, the ones
that survived and revived after the days
of deep cold. To them, it’s as if the threat
never happened, as if life itself wasn’t
hanging in the balance. Birth pains;
nothing more, a small price to pay
for the privilege of standing here
in this wondrous world, listening
to birdsong and the splash of falling rain.