The snow falls in soft syllables,
blanketing the world in quiet sentences.
A single tree stands in the meadow,
its branches heavy with the weight of white silence.
The air is cold, but it holds me,
wraps itself around my skin like a second body.
Far off, the cry of a fox
pierces the brittle night, sharp as a needle.
I breathe in the scent of winter—
smoke from a distant chimney,
the clean bite of ice,
the faint trace of pine.
Alone, I am a witness to the dark,
to the stars spilling their silver
over the quiet woods.
The earth listens with me,
vast and patient,
waiting for dawn to crack open the night.
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