The Silent Geometry of Winter

Frost edges the sleeping pane, a fragile silver map drawn by quiet breaths in the dark, waiting for morning to dissolve its meaning.

Beneath the soil, roots hold fast to memories of rain and light, dreaming in the slow hum of the earth where time pools in unseen hollows.

The sky stretches thin and white, a bruised canvas over the dormant fields, offering neither promise nor apology— only the vast, unbroken patience of snow.