Beneath a sky stitched tight with ashen thread,
The winter lays its quiet, silver claim;
Each rooftop bows, each bare-limbed tree is led
To stand in white, absolved of bark and name.
The snow falls soft as breath held in the chest,
A hush that settles streets and restless thought;
Time slows, as though the world itself has guessed
That stillness, too, is something dearly bought.

Footsteps write brief stories, soon erased,
By drifting lace the wind is quick to mend;
Cold fingers brush the cheek, sharp yet chaste,
A reminder all warm things must bend.
Yet in this frost, a gentler truth is sown:
From deepest hush, the heart learns how to glow.