frostbitten buds in waiting

a poem of hibernation in more than one way

what is the beauty of winter? 
         the cold constriction, like a frigid, white boa 
that
        spirals
                  around 

        one's           mind 
like                        the 
   wrapping        of a 
              winter 
      scarf? leaves strip away 
                             to leave branches black and bare
 like singed bones 
           just as the once fruitful flowers
          that burgeoned in my mind have

                                                 fallen 

                                                           away 

  like unrelenting 
                            snow. 

  shadows are casted by the thick fog 
that conceals

 the glint of inspiration i derive from the light of the sun and
                 everything 
                                                  runs
                                                                             dry.

 so i trap myself 
______________
in the roots of a tree, 
writing

         notes from underground. 

i hibernate in a frosted chrysalis
 and turn to sloppy mush in this season

 until the buds begin to
      shake with giddiness,
 and then can i finally escape 
                                             this pale drought that winter brings upon me.

                                             the beauty of winter is the patience
                                      of the sleeping flowers in waiting for spring. 
                                      i wish them fancies of the petal dresses that 
                                              await them during their slumber.