Beneath the Frozen Willow

The weight of the gray winter sky pushed on the frail body of a bunny, whose white coat camouflaged it against the snow-covered field. It would have been invisible if not for its twitching pink nose and cloud of breath in the frosty air. Awake when it should have been sleeping, a cold pain twisted inside the bunny’s stomach, a gnawing reminder of its failure to prepare for the long months ahead. The trees stood bare, fields lay still, and the only sound was a chill whispering in the air that spring might never return.

The snow crunched under its long, flat feet as it hopped across the open field. Ahead stood a willow tree, its icy tendrils hanging to the ground like stalactites forming a protective barrier around its mighty trunk. The bunny hopped closer and slipped slipped through the gate of frozen branches. Under the tree’s warm embrace, roots twirled from the frozen dirt creating a cradle just the perfect size for a bunny to rest its tired head.

The bunny curled its paws around its face and closed its eyes, feeling the heaviness of sleep for the first time since the seasons shifted. The ground beneath its body softened, and the roots tightened as if hugging the tiny creature closer to its breast. The bunny opened its eyes, ears twitching. “Are you awake?” it whispered.

A gust of wind loosened the icicles from the willow’s branches, shattering on the ground. The trunk expanded and contracted as it took a deep breath. “I am always awake,” the willow responded in a voice as soft as moss and deep as the ocean. “I am an herald of the Goddess of the East. She resides over the realm of breath, spirit, and spring, among many things.”

“Spring?” the bunny echoed.

“Indeed. I stay awake in the quiet moments before growth. Even now, as the earth rests and the world feels frozen, life is stirring beneath the surface.”

The bunny gazed up at the frosted canopy twinkling in the few sun rays that managed to penetrate the thick layer of clouds. Though the hollow in the willow’s roots was warm, spring felt so far away. “How can I believe in something I cannot see?”

“Spring begins long before the flowers bloom. The snow blankets the buried seeds as they gather strength to emerge when the frost melts. All stories begin in silence. Beginnings are everywhere, little one. Even when you cannot see them.”

“Not for me,” the bunny’s hushed voice quivered. “I did not store enough food before hibernation, and the hunger hurts my belly so that I cannot fall back to sleep. I worry this winter is my last.”

Another breath from the willow tree cracked its stiff, frozen branches as it reached in toward the bunny. It offered a sprig of fresh mint, a humble treat that the bunny savored with each bite. “Begin with faith, little one. Not in what you see, but in what you feel. Begin with the fertile ground of this moment, with the innocence of not knowing how it all turns out. Begin without waiting for spring to come, and trust that everything you need has already arrived.”

The bunny looked up at the willow’s graceful trunk. “Even now?”

“Especially now,” the willow said. “Trust that every moment—no matter how small— is exactly where you need to be.”

The final mint leaf left a cold tingling on the bunny’s tongue, yet somehow its insides felt warmer. Still uncertain if it would open its eyes again, the wisdom of the willow tree set the bunny at ease enough to doze off once more. They must trust, as all creatures do, that spring will always begin again.