My garden does not wait though frogs lie in the mud beneath the glimmering ice. Cold, near lifeless, they exist in a patient limbo between life and death, so close to either, yet neither.
Unlike a bird it worries not for sustenance
as it waits.
I look toward a gray sky, broken by the twisting, curving, spreading crown of a tree. The tree has silently waited through the cold winds of winter. It does its part to protect the ground, the insects hidden in its crevices and the birds who seek refuge among its limbs.
Spring, yes it will come and soon. Soon gloves, clippers and trowel will be commonplace in my garden. Soon my legs will stretch and my shoulders will ache. Weeds will be piled and I will be cursing the heat. The heat. I long to curse the heat.
But for now, I look in from beyond my garden. I will look in and like the frog, I will wait.