Winter Walk

I walk the garden run in the icy chill of winter sun, where flowers once bloomed in their colorful glow but now sleep silently beneath the snow; clear and ever on the move alone the waterfall taps briskly on each stone and down to the bottom lay small fry fish swimming lightly in play through the piled fallen leaves; there is a hush in the skeleton of trees neither bird nor squirrel stirs a frown as the ground blushes darkened brown grass beige and dying quiet on the earth below; chilled winds rise and freely blow fir trees and yellow-green brush wave hello and gently ease up the daffodils of spring waiting patient to play their song and sing; leaves till curl and tussle in the winds and northeast bluster loudly rings but on the horizon, hope springs eternal and winter walk is a seasonal kernel as flowers rise within my mental poetry journal.