winter poem

In the grasp of Black February, where shadows stretch and linger, Beneath a sky so weary, cold, and stark, The land lies dormant, in a frost-bound slumber, Awaiting the touch of Spring’s first spark. Trees stand sentinel, their branches bare, Against the backdrop of a muted world, Their silhouettes like brushstrokes, fine and rare, On…

In the heart of winter’s deepest chill, A whisper of hope, a wish to instill, February’s days, short and brisk, Carry a promise, with dawn’s risk. Let each snowflake that falls and fades, Bring warmth not seen in sun or shades, For hearts entwined in frost’s embrace, Seek solace in the cold’s brief grace. May…

In the quiet, dwindling days of February, Where shadows stretch and cold winds tarry, Beneath the stark, bare branches overhead, Lies the silent earth, a slumbering bed. Whispers of spring softly begin to stir, A subtle shift, a gentle whisperer, Promising warmth with its tender grace, In the slow awakening of the earth’s embrace. Frozen…

In late February’s embrace, where shadows linger, Beneath the bare, outstretched arms of winter trees, A whisper of spring on the horizon, a tender finger, Touches the frost with a promise, a gentle tease. The snow, once proud in its winter dominion, Begins to retreat, revealing earth’s slumbering face, While the sun, growing bold in…

In the grip of winter’s frost, where light is scarce, February reigns with an iron, icy clasp. Its days, short and bitter, a silent force, Marching under skies, a leaden and heavy mass. Bare branches shiver, not a leaf to be seen, Snow blankets the earth in a cold, unyielding sheet. The sun, a distant,…

In the hush of winter’s evening, Where the sky blushes at the night, February’s twilight, softly weaving Threads of darkness with last light. Bare branches etch the fading blue, A silent symphony in gray, Each silhouette a clue To the secrets of the day. Stars, like shy reflections, start to peer Through the canopy of…

The sky, a canvas of grey and white, Sighs softly over the sleeping town. Bare trees stand, guardians of the light, Their shadows long, on pavements drown. A gentle chill, the air does carry, As clouds parade in silent jest. The streets, deserted, seem to tarry, In this quiet, a tranquil rest. A lone bird…

In February’s chill, where whispers freeze mid-air, A pot simmers, melding flavors with care. Within its depths, a warmth begins to rise, A gentle brew of chicken soup with rice. Beneath the frosty veil of winter’s grip, This soup becomes a sailor’s sturdy ship. Sailing through cold, with spices nice, On waves of broth, afloat…