Winter Vigil

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.