In the dark garden, the days grow short, the night overtakes the hours of light, as barren trees dance in the cold bitter wind, their branches clacking against one another sound like rattling hollow bones.
I hear crows in the distance calling my name.
The ground below is quiet now, frozen, resting, dormant, waiting. Catching the sweet scent of decay, forming fertile ground in which to grow next year's garden.
The roots below connecting me to my ancestors, cradling me in deep sweet slumber, whispering their wisdom in the silence of the long winter nights, where dreams are woven into tapestries of delight for futures not yet lived, becoming the seeds of possibility to be planted, nurtured, and grown, anticipating the harvest.
The promise of the light returning in the spring creates a quickening, a stirring, a longing for fresh new beginnings. There is light in the dark and it grows brighter and brighter, slowly, gently awakening me from my repose, preparing the way to reemerge once again with arms wide open to the Sun.