.

Withered,
she stands by the porch window.
Her hands clutch at threads that
never really existed outside her
mind. Winter has arrived by now,
its raw cold working its way into
the lining of her pathetic, broken
heart. Winter, which always dawns
so suddenly, choking organs and
strangling susceptible throats
with its arctic bite. Winter, that
creeps up on the soul and frosts
porch windows that were too cold
to begin with. It winds its way into
the weatherbeaten lines of her
hands that still, still tug at strings
and empty shards of hope that
were never full to begin with.

And then, as suddenly as it came,
winter retreats, its frosted fingers
taking with them the frigid dusk
that settled permanently over
every day.

And now – it is spring and maybe,
slipping in between all these new
beginnings, she can start afresh
with new hopes, new dreams and
a new heart that is not so prone
to the dusted white of winter. For
spring has arrived, its warm green
spreading across the garden, across
the porch, whose windows are no
longer coated with the pale sheen
of winter; across a heart which
has long since untied itself from
winter's icy bind and is now

free.


a/n - on the contrary, i actually love winter, ha.

19/9