It is the hidden things,
Cyclamen in the shadow of the rock,
Not the sudden profusion, burgeoning bouquet
Of some Parisian atelier -
Vain remembrance of things past.
It is the chastisement of winter
That beckons the spring.
It is the process that molds
The outcome. The incremental steps,
These are the issues of life.
A flower maintains its kind
Simply by bearing within itself
Pollen and seed in its time.
Who knows what the future holds?
- Chaim Bezalel