What is winter?
Maybe like me
the unbloomed flowers
are unsure of what to say.
Do they sit within themselves
waiting to speak
holding their pollen tongues
wondering what might be best?

Is spring then a conversation?
It does sound that way when
we ramble through the canyon,
as if all the natural world
is chatting, unabashedly
dreaming ideas out loud
among friends
and to itself.