Sometimes the muse slows down, stops. No more whispers in your ear. No more urgings to follow. Like ice, the flow freezes. Don’t worry and, above all, don’t struggle. It would be as useless as trying to fight the seasons.
Wait, wait for the thaw. It will come. The ice will crack. You’ll hear a drip. A robin will sing a spring tune in your ear. The muse will awaken again, stretching her arms and wiggling her toes. Sleepy eyed, but rested from her nap, she will tell you of her dreams. Of bulbs so full of life that they are ready to burst and of blossoms and bees and warm earth.
Some seeds won’t sprout in the spring without first being frozen in the winter.