Winter’s Quiet Art
Winter arrives on a breath of white,
Soft as a secret the earth keeps still.
The trees stand bare, yet dignified,
Ink sketches drawn on a silvered hill.
Snow falls slowly, a patient grace,
Each flake a wish with a fragile form,
Blanketing scars, smoothing noise,
Teaching the world how to be calm.
The air bites sharp, but feels so clean,
Lungs filled with crystal, frost, and light.
Even the sun shines more gently now,
A pale gold promise in shorter days.
Footsteps crunch like whispered prayers,
Time itself seems hushed and small.
In winter’s cold, the heart learns this:
Stillness, too, can hold us all.
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