Hanging heavy and low,
but still bitter.
Not yet ready to plummet to the earth.
These weights tug at my branches
I must prepare,
for all these unborn dreams,
wanting to live, to spread their own seeds.

A cup of coffee,
gravity
a morning yawn. Making
busy work
I tried a passion or two. They
yielded a small harvest, not enough
to survive the winter.

And winter is here,
reaching far inside the reserves,
testing out how brutally
it can ravage before collapse.
Lost in the blizzard, I stumble.
Your dreams call to me, a light leading me home.
If I can't find my own, I'll follow yours,
we'll make it through this storm.