Whispers of an Unseen Winter

In the hush of a December glow,

A child stands still, where soft breezes blow,

Awaiting the flurry, a tender embrace,

An absent ballet, time’s delicate lace.

The air bites gently, a chill without claws,

While bare branches stretch in silent applause.

No flurries descend—a void stark and clear,

This strange warmth envelops, yet feels so severe.

“Let me catch one!” she calls to the dusk,

Her hopes shimmer softly, like dreams made of husk.

Yet frost no longer kisses the windows of glass,

As seasons drift onward, like echoes of past.

By the hearth, her grandmother sighs,

A keeper of tales and the swirls of the skies.

“Winter once thundered with brilliance and might,

Yet now, beloved child, we savor the night.”

The flames flicker gently, weaving shadows long,

Where whispers of stories emerge in the strong.

“Feel how the chill bites, like love left in wait,

Yet in this embrace, we find warmth, not fate.”

Her voice—small yet fierce—pierces the still:

“What if the snow never graces the hill?

If winter forgets us, as we tend to forget,

Will love find a way, as the sun starts to set?”

And there it descends—a flake, fragile, free,

A whisper of frost, a promise to be.

It twirls through the darkness, from night’s endless shroud,

A fleeting miracle, soft yet proud.

“One flake descends, a vow delicate,

To remind the world of love's timeless state,

That through every season, in guise or disguise,

The heart knows its truth, and forever it flies.”

For though winter may stumble, its spirit remains—

A gentle snowfall in the pulse of our veins.

Each breath we take, each moment ignites,

With echoes of winter’s soft shimmering lights.

So let the child dream in this warm, tender space,

Where memories linger and futures embrace.

For in every silence, beauty does grace,

In winter’s soft whisper, life finds its trace.