death and dormancy are nearly twins:
it’s easy to confuse them, one for one –
and ‘permanence’ — it is the sort of word
we stumble over, blindly, as we run
i see her, dormant, ‘neath this winter’s chill;
the icy crystals, ’round her seem to set
to me though, she’s a garden in the snow:
and i suspect that there’s life in her
yet
She is beautiful in her dormancy.
And another might think you are speaking of the soul.
Indeed.