There are only roots and luck.

I cleared around the reeds last year. 
They whip in the wind and snow, seizures against the persecuting cold but
where their sisters waned, gratefully green in detached and resilient survival.

Sometimes they sleep, but I know it’s brief and only out of necessity.  

There’s no safety here, nor time for it.
That fleeting sentiment was never lost to progress

Though it holds fast.