Winter’s Last Breath
I have long been drawn to cool mornings, when the sky wears its gray like a secret. Heavy with mist and mystery, the clouds drift low, cloaking the world in quiet. Sunlight, shy and golden, cracks through the veil of fog like a whispered promise— not loud, not sudden, just enough to remind me that light still lives behind the silence.
Everything disappears invisibly before me: trees softened into silhouettes, birds flying as shadows, the earth itself holding its breath. The dark skies resemble winter— as if a blizzard might burst forth with the next inhale, a storm waiting just beyond the edge of thought. But it is not November, nor December. It is spring.
And beneath the illusion of frost, I feel warmth touching the soil, rising like memory from the roots. The air carries both chill and bloom, a paradox I’ve come to love— where endings and beginnings walk hand in hand through the mist.
Now, as the season turns, I sense the stillness before departure—how endings don’t always arrive with fanfare, but slip in softly, like petals loosening from the bud. Spring, with all its promise, does not erase what came before; it simply begins the slow unraveling.
The frost recedes, yes, but so too do certain chapters, certain shadows. I stand in the quiet bloom, knowing that to begin again is also to let go—tenderly, deliberately, like roots releasing what no longer feeds them.
DRR