It's winter again, or perhaps it stayed,
In shadows long where sunlight frayed.
The frost still clings to windowpane,
And silence hums its soft refrain.
The clocks are slow, their whispers gray,
The days dissolve, the nights decay.
A breath, a cloud, a fleeting ghost,
A chill that haunts the quiet host.
The trees stand bare, their arms outstretched,
Like memories lost, or dreams unetched.
The snow, a shroud on weary earth,
A cradle cold, a frozen birth.
Oh, was there spring? Did summer sigh?
Did autumn paint the twilight sky?
Or is it true, as hearts suspect,
That winter stayed, and we forget?
'Tis winter once again, or so it's true—
The cold, the stillness, feels like you.