Sleeping Garden

I walk through the sleeping garden, footsteps muffled by the freshly fallen snow, watching the clean white reflect a watercolor sky. Everything is quieter, a natural silent chamber.

There is softness and peace in this cool pastel surrounding, like a very old photograph, dulled by the passing of time, of things long gone.

Here and there an earthy seed head or a golden grass plume moves gently in the breeze, while birds sift snow from the branches above when they seek shelter. There are no scents, just the unmistakable chill of winter that fills the nostrils and makes them stick.

The stillness of the garden imposes a weird reverence, compelling me to soften my voice to barely a whisper. 

Snow keeps falling gently, quieting my thoughts.