And then on the crest fallen snow, I find my winter.
Iced to branches, waiting for warmth to melt what I cling to.
Beveled in light fluff I could ease my way out, but I stay.
In the crispy white of discontent I wonder…
Are my roots even established?
Will shoots spring forth when the cold ceases?
Nothing. I hear no whispers.
So I tarry.
I can remain hidden in the season’s covers.
So unknown is the growth, the branches, the fruit.
I am buried.
Let there still be seeds. A prayer on my frozen lips.
For one day there will be sun and this is my expectation.
That there is a reason I lay dormant
and the hibernation of all my gifts are worth something.
While my heart so hidden, keeps still.
Beneath, where beautiful things slowly grow .
