Frost reaches for the window
Widow spider named Winter
Stark scenes of muted greys and crystal whites that shimmer
The glimmer hides the lie
Ice wind across your face
Bites your nose
Bites your eyes
Romanticized too much
Stiff fingers and black toes as you lose your sense of touch
Angel of death, descending with the snow
Substance is the passing key
The secret isn’t frequency
Consistency?
There is no need
Progression isn’t measured by the pace chosen to keep
Long sleep, great awakenings
Taking a moment to wipe the stains from your eyes
Bringing into focus all that you’d been passing by
There’s no harm in hanging back
You have to take the opportunity to see what’s on your step
thInkStains 