It would seem
That just as the fields and flowers
Have their winter
Blanketed in quiet and frost
Words have their winter, too
There are days
Weeks, seasons
Where the letters stop sprouting
And nothing climbs up through the heart-soil
Pages lay, empty garden beds
Absent the rooting of new life
These periods strike with desolation
A desert of feeling
Walking without water
Without words
A mirage of authorship
In dormancy, winter fills itself
Each in the pursuit of warmth
Knitting comfort with ferocity
And if the winter of words
Bears any salve
It is this
The presence of winter must mean, too
That words also have their Spring