Mar 19
A Poem to Lingering Winter Spirits
In the quiet before dawn they move through bare branches, tracing frost-sigils in unseen air, their dance a hymn to the in-between.
Not winter— but its echo.
They turn where time hesitates, whispering to root and stone: not yet.
If you feel them— that hush, that watching stillness— stand gently within it.
For their touch is not cold, but a subtle mark of knowing:
that even as the world begins again, some spirits remain to guard the sacred pause between endings and becoming.