The promise of things to come

Springtime isn't guaranteed. We tend to think of it that way, because history has shown that after winter comes the spring, but there's no contract written up that promises this. I've never signed my name anywhere where I agree to bear witness to new flowers and birds and bugs and such after walking around my house in a blanket for 12 weeks. We trust in the order of things, in the balances that have existed long before us and will persist long after we are gone. There is a beauty in that sort of trust. A reliability like that is noble and eloquent, and quite frankly, it sees us through the winter. It fills us with hope, and sometimes even patience for the cold, dark dampness. Sometimes the