The frost hangs heavy on the glass, each breath a ghost of winters past.
The trees stand bare, their silence loud, and snow drapes quietly over the ground.
I hear your voice in every chill, a memory that bends the hill.
The wind repeats what cannot stay, soft echoes of a lost today.
The hearth is cold, the room a shade, where light and warmth have slowly frayed.
Each step I take recalls your name, a shadow burning without flame. Yet in the hush, the quiet gleams, a fragile thread of frozen dreams.
The frost may bite, the night may last, but echoes teach me what to grasp.
And though the winter lingers long, its sorrow hums a muted song.
I walk among the ice and snow, and find the strength to let you go.
