Winter’s Changing Complexion

We used to know winter by the calm it carried,

 a wonder of stillness,

air embroidered with frost so fine

it could mend the often shattered edges of thought.

Now it arrives like a stranger wearing the wrong coat,

sometimes barefoot, burning.

Rain falls where snow once arrived ever so quietly,

While today, the sky forgets how to hold its breath.

The trees still bow,

but not in sleep,

in confusion.

 Pine needles curl like brittle question marks.

Oak leaves linger too long,

as if reluctant to believe the script has changed.

Emptiness used to be sacred,

 a pause,

 a breath,

a stage set for renewal.

 Now it flickers,

 a glitch in the season’s rhythm,

 ice forming like fragile beliefs on rivers that should be steadfastly at rest.

Nature once moved with the grace of inevitability,

 four acts,

no intermission.

Now the play stutters,

 skipping scenes,

 forgetting lines.

Still,

beneath the chaos,

seeds huddle in the soil,

murmering old truths to the trembling earth.

They know patience,

they know the long game,

 they know that warmth is not always a temperature.

This fractured winter…

Warns us of incoming thunder,

rolling through snow,

even as blossoms dare to bloom too soon.

Yes…

The only dependable warmth may be the one we offer each other,

a hand held,

a breath shared,

a love that burns steady as a hearth

when the world forgets how its cold touch

is delivered with grace.