The Dead Of Winter Garden

The dead of winter garden is still,

unruffled by any breeze, birdless,

waiting for change.

Soil, moist with the mist of days,

lies undisturbed by anything

save the cold fingers of frost.

Stalks of grass, green still,

and erect, even now,

hang on to pearls of dew

like the talons

of a rich old woman.

The grey gloom of sky,

a brief brightening on this

shortest of days,

lowers, glowers, glimmers

above, like the cold bedsheet

of a singleton.

Inhale, draw in a full chest

of winter air, let it prickle

your lungs, crackle

your ribs, let it run

across your tongue.

There is no taste.

There is no scent.

There is no sound.

There is quiet, and nothing,

nada y nada y nada.

Everything that did,

now does not.

Even people

have withdrawn

from the world.

We all sit and wait

in our hand made caves,

listening,

wittering,

withering,

wishing for spring,

waiting for change.