It starts like a flake,
It holds to life,
Before it snows,
It was a snowflake,
Like a fetus,
Before we call it human.
The womb holds its
First secrets from the snow,
A hidden workshop carved in ice,
Where cells divide in silver silence.
Outside, the world sees only drifts,
A barren crust of frozen white—
Unaware of the pulse beneath the frost,
The intricate lace of a beating heart.
A season held in stasis,
Where breath is frost and bone is ice,
Waiting for the thaw to break
The silence of the white.
Just how winter makes me
It arouses the feeling
Of being alone,
Of wanting to build a snowman,
Of smiling endlessly.
But all is white;
I miss the sun.
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Author:
imma isa kemmy (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: January 15th, 2026 10:39
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Online)
Comments2
Isa, this spoke to that strange mix of wonder and loneliness winter can bring. Wanting to smile, to build, while still missing warmth is very human. I recognized myself in that tension. Very well done!🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
thanks a lot
A poem of ambivalence to even the beauty of the seasons where growing tired of cold and darkness outweighs the beauty of the season.
thats true thanks a lot
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