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 .

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