Frozen Walk

Morning arrives without sound,

as if the world agreed

to begin quietly.

The cold tightens everything it touches—

roads, branches, thoughts—

until nothing feels loose enough

to fall apart.

I step outside

and the air meets me halfway,

sharp but honest.

It asks nothing,

offers nothing,

only presence.

The ground is sealed with frost.

Each footstep becomes a decision.

There is no casual movement here,

no careless progress.

The earth demands attention,

and I give it willingly.

Ice feathers the edges of the path,

tracing delicate warnings

that disappear by noon.

Grass stiffens beneath glassy skin.

Even the smallest stones

look held in place by intention.

Trees stand in perfect agreement.

They do not bend.

They do not whisper.

Their branches are bare,

but not empty.

They hold the cold

like a memory they have learned

not to argue with.

My breath becomes visible,

then vanishes.

Proof that I am here,

and that being here

is temporary.

Winter makes no promises

about permanence.

Walking slows time.

Minutes stretch thin and careful.

The future feels far away,

the past sealed under layers of frost.

Only the present remains usable.

There is a strange kindness

in this restraint.

Cold removes excess.

It strips the world

to its clean lines.

No distraction survives long enough

to matter.

Thoughts arrive one at a time.

They do not overlap.

They do not compete.

Each one steps forward,

waits to be acknowledged,

then steps back into silence.

The sound of my boots

pressing into ice

echoes softly,

as if the world is listening

but not responding.

Even echoes behave carefully here.

I pass houses with quiet windows,

curtains drawn against the season.

Life exists behind glass and walls,

but it feels distant,

contained,

like a story paused mid-sentence.

The path narrows.

Snow thickens.

Balance becomes a conversation

between body and ground.

I learn to trust smaller movements.

I learn to stop rushing.

Winter teaches precision.

It does not reward force.

It favors steadiness,

the slow confidence of someone

who knows falling is not failure,

only feedback.

The sky hangs low and pale,

offering no drama.

No sunrise spectacle.

No sunset performance.

Just light,

thin and honest.

I realize how rarely

I allow myself

this kind of quiet.

How often I mistake motion

for progress,

noise for meaning.

Here, nothing urges me forward.

There is no finish line.

Only the act of continuing.

The cold settles into my bones,

not painfully,

but firmly—

a reminder of limits.

A reminder that warmth is earned,

not assumed.

At the end of the path,

I stop.

Not because there is nowhere else to go,

but because stopping feels correct.

The world does not change

when I pause.

It does not acknowledge me.

It does not hurry me along.

It simply remains—

still,

balanced,

complete.

I stand there longer than planned,

learning what winter offers

to those who listen:

that silence can hold shape,

that restraint can feel full,

and that sometimes

the most honest journey

is a careful walk

across frozen ground,

step by deliberate step.