In the darkest of nights

In the darkest of nights
when I lie awake,
the tiniest sliver of moon shining through the pitch-black 
blanket of sky,
all I want to see are flowers
blooming and trees
bursting with soft green leaves.
All I want is for the sun to rise,
for the snow to thaw,
for this eternal winter to finally end,
and to finally feel sunshine on my skin and see freckles on my face
and be the person I know I'm meant to be--
she's in here somewhere, I can feel her, trying to break free.
I want all of this,
but in the darkest of nights,
all I have are woolen blankets,
a blackberry sky,
the soft hum of the radiator serenading me
as sleep seems to slowly
s
  l
     i
        p
out of my grasp.
Flowers don't bloom here,
and trees are stark and bare,
scraggly branches only a faint reminder
of the glory of days before.
I could cry, I suppose, on these darkest of nights,
but the thought never seems to come.
There's fog all around me, the world's a blur,
but when I close my eyes,
all I see is sunlight.
Because, yes, right now, we are in the darkest of nights
where eveything is cold
where everything is strange
where everything feels wrong,
but one day--
maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the next--
the darkness will give way
to the orange-pink of sunrise,
soft and hopeful,
quiet and strong.
And I'll laugh out loud,
glad I was wrong,
because I thought spring would never come,
and it did.