The winter is here. I feel like myself again.
I peel oranges and put cinnamon on my apples.
I look at how I’ve cut them all uneven and I love every single piece that comes from my hands.
My coffee is just as warm as I want it to be and love is just a light air on my shoulders,
Which I carry around but never as a weight.
In winter I find my self being so in love with the world.
The beauty of a naked tree and each pomegranate planting its seed.
I want to be a winter child,
Where the colds are never unfortunate and the snow is always immaculate.
I once wrote that if I was a tree I would be a deciduous,
Since a change this small as the changing of seasons makes me rip all my parts off and throw them down to the ground,
And yet in this way I feel more connected to the earth as ever,
As if my emotional being finally belongs somehow,
To something so important like the beautiful weather.
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 10:16 AM UTC
The winter is here. I feel like myself again.
I peel oranges and put cinnamon on my apples.
I look at how I’ve cut them all uneven and I love every single piece that comes from my hands.
My coffee is just as warm as I want it to be and love is just a light air on my shoulders,
Which I carry around but never as a weight.
In winter I find my self being so in love with the world.
The beauty of a naked tree and each pomegranate planting its seed.
I want to be a winter child,
Where the colds are never unfortunate and the snow is always immaculate.
I once wrote that if I was a tree I would be a deciduous,
Since a change this small as the changing of seasons makes me rip all my parts off and throw them down to the ground,
And yet in this way I feel more connected to the earth as ever,
As if my emotional being finally belongs somehow,
To something so important like the beautiful weather.
Request permission to use this poem