Only a fool, they say,
pries frozen earth for figs in winter,
expecting summer’s gold-green sweetness
from a skeleton of branches.

Just as foolish, then,
to dream the wicked
will shed their wickedness
like a worn coat,
to wait for the cruel to soften,
for the wolf to shed its teeth,
for the storm to apologize
for its rough hands.

Do we stand in the downpour,
arms wide, begging the sky
to unlearn its nature?
Do we plant seeds in stone
and whisper grow?

No, wisdom is not bitterness,
but clear-eyed seeing:
the thorn guards its vine,
the river follows its old grooves,
and fire never bows
to the moth’s pleading wings.

Stand, then, with eyes wide open,
not shut in some wishful haze.
Walk without illusion,
meet the world as it is,
ready for the day’s true colors,
prepared for the ways of people.
Keep your hands open, yes,
but your footsteps steady,
your gaze unclouded.

People are what they are.
To ask otherwise
is to hunt figs in snow,
to wait for winter
to kneel and repent.