Resilience

I'm not sure I know what resilience is.
Not experientially, anyway.

I know of wood frogs who hibernate
in the leaf layer, whose
blood is like anti-freeze and 
whose bodies freeze and thaw
through the winter.
I know of woodland depressions,
bowls in the earth
who want to be ponds but 
must be patient
and wait
for winter's ice to melt 
into the water that fills them,
only to become dry land again 
when their work is done.

Contrary to what Jesus is said to have said,
seeds do not die when they fall to the ground.
Rather, embryos within fully alive,
they lie helpless and inert,
pummeled by rain and abrasion until
slowly they soften and sprout and
open to the world.
As do desert plants who live
so long dormant,
out of sight and forgotten,
until awakened by showers,
they burst into bloom,
set their seed,
and return to silent slumber
once again. 

I know of skunk cabbage,
warmed from within,
melting through the frozen muck
and emerging in late winter,
as though it cannot stand the
darkness a moment longer.
And snow geese and tundra swans,
and humans with hearts on fire,
who press on through the long unknown
to the land that calls
them home.

I don't know what resilience is.
Not experientially, anyway.
But, from those who have no choice,
I learn.