Between the bookshelves and standing plates,
An old wooden chair whispers tales of time.
I sit and watch the hill beyond the gate,
A blanket of snow, silence so sublime.
The window frames a world both cold and bright,
Each flake a ghost of winter\'s frozen breath.
The hill, a white expanse in morning light,
A canvas of stillness, hinting at death.
The chair creaks softly under my deep sigh,
A sentinel of countless quiet days.
I trace the snow\'s descent from grey-lit sky,
Its fall a dance, a slow, deliberate maze.
Amidst the hush, I find a calm reprieve,
In this old chair, the world, I almost believe.