Winter Without Snow.

Winter arrives like a tired actor,
coat too thin for the role,
streets wet instead of white,
the sky a tarnished mirror
hung low over the roofs.

I walk and carry inside me
a smaller self—
boots too big, breath fogging the air,
a child who believed
the world renewed itself each year
in silence and snow.

In little Denmark,
winter once meant absolution:
fields erased, fences forgiven,
every mistake buried
under a clean, cold hymn.

Snow was everywhere—
on eyelashes, on lampposts,
on the patience of time itself.

Now the season smells of rain and rust.
The ground remembers nothing.
I listen for the old creak of frost,
the secret language of frozen lakes,
but the earth refuses to close its eyes.

O snow, pale confessor,
where have you taken my first joys?
I miss the way you taught me stillness,
how even sorrow could be softened,
how silence could shine.

Inside me, the child still waits—
hands red, heart loud—
staring at a sky that no longer promises.
And winter passes, gray and unfinished,
leaving me with longing
instead of light.

Tsl. 25
#mypoems