where the willows whisper between strong oaks

somewhere in the middle, there is a standstill

a space between a single breath

painted flowers . growing on top of frozen lungs

of roots that hum melodies

between the falling snow

those first white whispers resting upon a meadow

build into silence

playing with the perfect stillness of a winter’s night

in the tall, hollow woods

forever it may seem, lost in slumber

( only a fragile pulse of nature

deep under the earth

echoing in the twigs beneath the soles of your feet )

letting you know to wait patiently for the gentle spring

a sweet promise

of painted flowers growing again,

on top of once

frozen lungs