The frost dares to bite, sharp and severe,
Painting the rooftops in winter’s veneer.
No howling nor rage—just a hush as it falls,
Soft as the stucco that clings to the walls.
Icicles glisten on archways so bright,
Children declare, “It’s frozen just right!”
Their laughter rings clear in the hollow, cold air,
While I stand betrayed by a season unfair.
The wind, once a whisper, now wicked and gray,
Steals every ember, then carries away.
Winter may dazzle, but I see its guise—
A thief dressed in silver, with ice in its eyes.
For the sun, now a stranger, hides from my gaze,
Shrouded in veils of the cold’s cruel maze.
The trees bow in silence, their boughs bending low,
Under the weight of the whispering snow.
The laughter of children rings sharp in the air,
Yet I shiver, unwelcome, untouched by their cheer.
For winter has stolen the warmth from my veins,
Leaving but echoes of autumn’s remains.
Still, I wait for the thaw, for the light to return,
For embers to glow where the frost chose to burn.
And though now I tremble, both bitter and worn,
I’ll bloom when the frost yields to spring, reborn.