Frozen Blossoms
Beneath the hush of a silvered dawn,
Where breath hangs briefly, then is gone,
The garden keeps its secret still—
A silence deeper than the chill.
Once petals trembled in the light,
Soft as a whisper, warm as sight;
Now every bloom, in crystal bound,
Speaks not in scent, but form profound.
Each frozen rose, each stilled embrace,
Holds time within its fragile face;
No wind disturbs, no bee draws near,
Yet something living lingers here.
For in the frost, there lies a trace
Of sunlit days and vanished grace;
A memory etched in icy thread,
Of colors lost, not truly dead.
O winter’s art, so stern, so kind,
You still the world, yet shape the mind;
In quiet loss, new sight is sown:
That beauty lives, though overthrown.
And when the thaw begins to start,
It will not wake the bloom alone,
But something deeper in the heart,
That knew the flower through the stone.
.
And when the thaw begins to start,
It will not wake the bloom alone,
But something deeper in the heart,
That knew the flower through the stone.
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