In a winter of words
the verbal garden hibernates.
The streams dry up
in a drought of expression,
a writer’s depression.
It is pencil down-time
where poetry lies fallow;
barren silence on a blank page.

It’s a waiting time,
a frustrating time,
without metaphor or rhyme.
The voice deprived of ways
to map an inner path.
No light to shine on truths,
no eyes to see beyond
and penetrate the dark.

Spring’s sap will surely come
to fuel an inspiration
for fresh communication,
bursting through earth’s crust
like lava flow or geyser steam
enriching inner landscapes
with those rare minerals
from the archetypal depths.

Skillful words that can unmask
the previously unseen,
purposefully drawing us
closer to our soul,
to meet a subtle promise
that we barely knew
was waiting – so patiently
inside our broken heart.

– Ardhan Swatridge, Feb 2018