There comes a quiet season
when the earth holds its breath,
and the sky is a pale sheet
folded gently over sleeping fields.
The trees stand bare,
their branches tracing delicate lace—
an intricate web of absence,
empty yet full of unseen promise.
In this stillness,
the heart learns to wait—
not with restless longing,
but with patient knowing.
The winter of the soul is no longer cold,
but a gentle pause,
a hushed space where old sorrows dissolve
like frost melting at dawn.
Beneath the frozen ground,
seeds gather strength—
invisible, but stirring,
waiting for the quiet call of spring.
So too, does healing come—
in its own time,
softly, without demand,
a slow unfolding into light.
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