Winter's Garden

Summer’s garden has long been past.

Red and pink flowers have faded.

A pirated ship, stalks stand like masts;

Berries and fruits have been raided.

Dead brown leaves lie thick like a blanket

Piled high by Autumn Wind’s breath.

Petals are gone, leaving seedheads naked,

And foliage is brittle as death.

Where bees once hummed and breezes whispered

Dry leaves now clatter and break.

Where once the sparrows sang sweet vespers

Now sleeps the cold-blooded snake.

The birdbath’s bowl is full of ice;

House Finches have nothing to drink.

Surviving Winter’s like tossing dice;

Wild creatures are pushed to the brink.

Winter’s garden does serve a purpose

Although many cannot see it.

What’s going on beneath the surface

Is one of nature’s hushed secrets.

In the soil at the base of a root

Curls a hibernating lizard,

And on the ground lies fallen fruit

That was buried in a blizzard.

The messy garden was left unpruned,

A kindness to nature’s creatures.

Pupae rest in leaf-stitched cocoons,

Cradles that hang from the birches.

Dry flower stems are hollow straws

Where sleeping bees tuck in and hide.

Bumble bee beauties in diapause,

The Queen is her colony’s pride!

Unraked leaves were left in a pile

Providing a cozy duvet,

For nestling beetles who doze awhile,

Surviving the cold winter days.

Branches are heaped like a giant nest;

They’re woven all helter skelter.

A mouse peeks out along with the rest,

Small animals sharing safe shelter.

Evergreen shrubs are like a thatched roof,

Protecting birds from the weather.

Hedges and leaves are the warp and woof,

A place where feathered friends gather.

Though Winter is a barren season

When nothing seems to be living,

We must listen to the lesson

This rhythm of nature is giving.

Sometimes our own lives seem dry and bare

As we go through difficult seasons.

The hollow ache of unvoiced prayer 

Grown numb by worn down emotions.

We need some space to just do nothing,

To be unfruitful for a while.

Time to cease from all the rushing,

Get quiet and calm; turn down the dial.

As we droop like a dried up flower,

We come to the end of ourselves.

Rest begins in this winter bower

Where in stillness, solitude heals.

And in our needed hibernal pause,

Our gentling presence becomes a place

That shelters others, wounded with flaws,

A nurturing home, an unplanned grace.

By Heather J. Willis, author