The Silence of a Winter Garden

The morning is a pale glass, A breath held in the cold, Where the frost has embroidered The skeletal remains of June.

The pond is an eye, Staring blankly at the sky, Its blue surface now a cataract Of frozen, milky light.

No birds are here to break The rhythm of the silence, Only the crack of a branch, Sharp as a sudden thought.

The garden sleeps in its white shroud, Dreaming of the root, the deep, The slow, dark pulse of life Waiting for the sun to speak.