Somewhere in the tangled, slightly frosty woods that cross your form, the sap should soon be flowing and the leaves would soon burn green. I felt Life stirring faintly once as I lightly touched you, Dear. If the ice in you has killed It, I must learn to live in grief.
I long for budding branches and the kissing warmth of breeze. Despite the rugged, rigid bark, I know the Heart is there. Lovebirds circle hopelessly/hopefully, intent on swift descent, but the ice in you dissuades them and the limbs hang broken cold.
The winter has been long and most of all the promises betrayed. They said to open up to Spring, then cut you down for Christ. I know it tempts to feign big death and shun the shaded lovers but the ice in you to melt requires the pruning care of Love.
I will carve no initial in you - you do not belong to me. I will whisper them beneath you, though, and hope the core will hear. I pray the hear the branches moan as the wind blows through them soft and eases out the ice in you that growth may start anew.
