The air bites—
no, it devours—
sharp-toothed and merciless,
slipping beneath scarves and skin,
gnawing at warmth
until it becomes memory.
Time itself feels brittle,
its hours frozen mid-breath,
its minutes shivering
against the relentless howl of wind.
The ground is hard, unforgiving,
a cruel canvas of frost
that cracks beneath careless steps,
each sound swallowed whole
by the vast, snow-heavy skies.
Trees stretch
their bare, trembling fingers upward,
their nakedness a quiet plea
to the sun that falters,
a pale specter scattering light
like the ashes of a dying fire.
And yet—
there is a warmth,
a golden softness
sewn delicately through the cold.
My face tilts skyward,
hands almost outstretched
to gather apricity’s fleeting embrace.
It lingers, barely,
melting against my skin
like a whispered promise in the storm,
fragile, but somehow true.
The stars above glimmer faintly,
not piercing,
but watchful, patient—
a light that waits,
that signals of quiet endurance,
reminding me that even in stillness,
there is something to follow.
My breath unwinds like ribbons,
visible and alive,
curling upward to meet the night.
Each step presses into snow,
the crunch breaking the silence
that sits so heavily
across the waiting earth.
The rivers sleep beneath veils of ice,
stillness painted in deceitful calm.
Beneath their mirrored surface,
currents twist and claw,
dark and unrelenting,
their silence not peace—
but surrender.
Wind sculpts the empty fields,
etching its fury into snowdrifts.
It speaks a language older than stars,
its voice grating against the silence
that sprawls across the land.
Winter is not a season;
it is a weight.
It is absence.
It is a shadow with no end.
The earth sleeps,
but not gently.
Its dreams twist in the dark,
restless and root-deep,
as if it dreads
the moment it must wake.
When the sun rises—
timid, weary,
its light fragile against the cold—
it offers not answers,
but hope.
And hope, though soft,
is warm enough to exist in.
Quill & Conscience 
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