The Silent Geometry of Winter

Frost maps the windowpane in jagged logic, a sudden architecture of white veins branching out toward the wooden frame, holding the breath of the room in glass.

Outside, the birch trees are stripped to bone, leaning against the heavy slate sky like chalk lines drawn across a blackboard, waiting for the erasure of snow.

The wind carries no scent, only a blunt edge, honing itself against the corners of the house while the afternoon folds inward, collapsing into an ink-dark blue.