lace patterned glazing—
frosted silver in spiderweb,
wet and trembling
In the sill sunlight shards
skitter on the panes,
their crackle soft as whispered ice.

Violet beautyberry clusters glisten,
vivid hearts trapped in crystal shells.
Spindly branches ache beneath icy weight,
struggling to hold their winter’s art.

Snow sprinkles itself soundlessly,
a sift of miniscule stars,
flakes pirouetting on their descent—
shhhh . . . .
they murmur in soft exhalations,
sinking themselves in layers,
weaving a shroud of powder crunch.

Lake’s edge frozen,
fractured veins running deep,
a mirror of sky and bone-white birch.
The ice moans—low then clicks
in an echoing spectral chatter
carrying into the hollow woods.

Drip . . . Drip . . .
Melting snow slides from icicles,
each ephemeral jewel
vanishing as it falls.

Cold that bites and soothes,
its beauty sharp enough to scar.
Breathe it in;
the crisp air carving through lungs
in sharp spears of pain.

Nature’s majesty,
frozen in motion,
fiercely silent,
a hymn of stillness eternal.

I cough a little,

it sounds muffled, like a thump --


on a concrete wall.

I never minded the quiet.
The way the walls never asked for anything,
the way the night didn’t need me to speak.
I could sit with my own silence,
breathe in the stillness,
and call it enough.

Then you showed up.
Not loud, not demanding--just there.
And suddenly, the silence wasn’t peaceful,
it was just empty.

I started waiting for your voice
before I even knew I was listening.
I started looking for you in rooms
I knew you wouldn’t be in.

And now, without you,
the quiet feels heavier.
Like it knows what it's missing.
Like it’s waiting, too.

I lit my candles all alone,
on a night that should have been my own.
The tiny flame flickered and died,
I whispered my wishes, but none replied.

He, as always, lay asleep,
while I stood silent, tired, bleak.
I washed the dishes, cleaned the floor,
he “saved his energy” once more.

I asked, I pleaded, time and again,
but silence met me now as then.
I carried weight that no one should,
believing strength meant all I could.

And him? He sighs, he hides away,
a child in mind, a man in sway.
And me? I cook, I clean, I run,
but who sees me when the day is done?

Loneliness lingers, heavy, cold,
a story quiet, left untold.
But maybe soon, when night appears,
I’ll light a flame for me, not tears.