Winter’s Windows

Gray spreads thinly across a sad sky,
a thick, unspeaking quilt of clouds,
smothering the light with its quiet weight.
Leaves, crumpled letters from trees,
whisper their brittle secrets to the wind,
and the air, heavy with a chill,
presses against windows,
frames that hold more than glass—
our lives caught in panes,
reflections blurred, futures unclear.

Through the smudged transparency,
a distant movement:
a crow pulling at the earth,
its beak a dark tool, unearthing something old.
And I wonder if this is change—
a labor of wings and shadows,
a thing we dread before it blooms.

Inside, we pace,
our breath fogging the glass,
watching seasons collapse into each other.
What is winter but a pause?
A moment when time folds itself,
and we must endure the weight of not-knowing.

The window remains:
both barrier and promise.
We see through it,
but we cannot feel the sun.
Not yet.