I watch your tendrils twine leafless around my window. I listen to your quiet whispering.
"In this icy night of endless winter, my life blood, my sap, lies frozen to the roots.
I exist in a deeply pregnant pause, a suspension of time.
I await the summoning of bird song, heralding the Sun's return to give me life and growth.
I am not dead. I merely slumber.
What gifts lie slumbering in your winter's soul, watcher?
When will they awaken?
They are not dead; they merely slumber until the light touches them.
When will you allow the springtime of your blossoming?
You are not dead; you merely slumber.
When will you awaken?"