Echoes in the Winter Veil

The morning drifts in on a veil of mist,

Soft fingers of fog curling around the bare trees.

Breath hangs heavy, a fleeting ghost,

As the world exhales in quiet white.

Frost etches lace upon the windows,

A delicate script only the cold can write.

Branches sway under icy weight,

And shadows stretch long across the frozen ground.

Footsteps crunch on untouched snow,

Echoing secrets no one dares to hear.

The wind sighs through empty streets,

Whispering tales of nights long past.

Smoke rises from chimneys like timid spirits,

Twisting and curling into the pale light.

The scent of pine and woodfire drifts,

Carrying warmth to those who remember to breathe.

A lone crow circles in the gray sky,

Its cry sharp against the silence.

Even the sun hides behind heavy clouds,

Shy, as if afraid to disturb the stillness.

Frozen streams murmur beneath their icy skin,

Secrets trapped in crystal veins.

And the earth sleeps beneath a blanket of frost,

Dreaming in patterns of snow and shadow.

Footsteps are swallowed by drifts of white,

Every step a moment fading into memory.

Windows glow softly with candlelight,

Flickering like the heartbeat of the world.

In the hush of winter, the past walks softly,

And every tree, every stone remembers.

Loneliness becomes a gentle companion,

Not bitter, but full of quiet reflection.

The night descends like velvet, heavy and slow,

Stars shivering through cracks in the fog.

And if you listen—truly listen—you hear

The whispers of the world,

Echoing in the winter veil.

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