Morning Meditation

In the Back Garden, Walking Alone

It is a cold morning,
as if everything has paused.

Each breath I draw in and let out
turns into a prayer,
a white whisper in the air.

On the tips of withered branches,
like the silence of those who endure without a sound,
snow gathers wordless, and frozen.

Beneath my feet,
half-frozen grass crackles softly.
Yet still alive,
it lies pressed to the ground,
holding on to its vivid green.

Though cold, it does not freeze to death.

It does not turn brown,

nor dry out and curl in on itself.

Walking alone in the back garden,

I meditate on winter

and feel the wild strength of life.

And I whisper these words to myself:

I want to be strong like you.

I want to be humble like you.

I want to overcome like you.

*these are my own paintings*