When Winter Holds the World

Winter does not enter—

it arrives,

like a queen robed in moonlight,

lifting the hem of the sky

so the stars can breathe.

The earth goes quiet in her presence.

Trees bow, bare and honest.

Rivers forget their names.

Even time removes its crown

and kneels.

Snow drifts down like a secret

the heavens can no longer keep,

each flake a tiny vow

to cover what has suffered,

to bless what has endured.

Lantern-light grows kinder.

Shadows soften their edges.

The night hums with something ancient—

a lullaby the world remembers

from before it learned to ache.

Nothing blooms now,

yet everything believes.

Roots dream beneath their white blankets.

Hearts, too tired to pretend,

finally rest their weight

against the ribs of silence.

This is not the death of the year.

It is the breath between prayers.

The sacred pause where the soul

is held—not asked, not tested—

only loved

into stillness.

And if you listen—truly listen—

you can hear it:

hope, sleeping softly

under winter’s wings.

© 2025 Lowvee Cole. All rights reserved. 

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