It is after all the fig leaves have fallen
And there is nothing left to
Cover you
That winter's invitation finally arrives.
And for the first time
You notice
The elegant dignity
Of gangly branches
Reaching for the Sun.
Never has their longing been so obvious.
It is the obviousness that touches you so.
With no soft green to hide behind
What more is there to do but to be
Still
and
Reach.
For every drop of light
Yields another breath.
Winter's gift is a
Fruitful plague
That teaches how to be
Chilled to the bone and
Still.
Grateful.
Still grateful
When we finally come to recognize
The cold inside
That is our own
And our only
Solace.
And from this solace
All and each
Is born.
Quick!
Don't rush the spring.
Or in the premature thaw
The brittle parts that have
Yet to yield
Must lie in wait another year.
Lean into the shadows;
Trust in their unseen opulence
Which can bear the task of holding you.
For they are most intimate
With the ground beneath,
Before, and behind you.
Keep your own shadows close
And one day you will
Thank each other
Have a good laugh
And be friends.
And winter will be your
Music Box
Beckoning you all
For a Dance.