Frigidity wounded the tender palms,
numbness nestled in beards,
crystals of snow hung from her earrings;
all now photographs that have creased.
The souls stare into the windows once mistaken for walls,
recalling their shadows chained to the stagnant snow,
but the seasons are meant to spiral,
and amidst the mosses osculated by winters,
there bloomed petals adorned by renewal.
Some cling tight to the yarn,
afraid of pointed crystals shredding the weave,
while some recall the cold, garbed in a tender sweater —
the tender sweater spun by bleeding hands,
pricked by needles and lost amongst the threads.
Once one with the pine tree,
trembling in a blizzard,
they now converse of and with past,
clad in fabrics of rejuvenation.
(i wrote this for a poetry competition but couldn't win, haha)
