Winter’s Mirror.

Poems.

Winter’s Mirror.

In the quiet of winter’s hollow heart,

where light fractures, splinters

into a thousand silent pieces,

I hear the echo of your breath,

a whispered pulse beneath the frost.

The mind is a solitary garden,

fallow earth awaiting seeds,

dreams buried beneath the snow,

and I am both the gardener

and the tiller of these barren fields.

I see the past’s shadow cast long,

fingers of memory clawing at dawn,

each moment a fragile leaf

trembling on the brink of becoming

or dissolving into the cold air.

What is this consciousness but a mirror

held to the soul’s shifting light,

reflecting, distorting, revealing

a landscape of tender wounds

and the promise of spring’s renewal?

In the stillness, the self unfolds,

petals of thought, raw and unfurling,

toward the sun that never sets,

always just beyond reach, yet constant,

a beacon in the desolate twilight.

Here, in the sacred silence,

I find myself again and again,

a journey without end, each step

a brushstroke on the canvas of time,

each breath a testament to being.

---

The Edge of the Field

We gather at the edge of the field,

a congregation of shadows and light,

each of us holding the weight

of unspoken histories, lives interwoven

in the silent loom of society's design.

In the distance, the city hums,

a hive of voices rising and falling,

each a thread in the fabric of the night,

each a question, a plea, a lament

for meaning in the ceaseless motion.

We are bound together by invisible strings,

a tapestry of shared dreams and fears,

yet each of us stands alone,

an island in a sea of faces,

searching for connection in the space between.

The streets are rivers of concrete,

carrying the current of humanity,

each soul adrift, caught in the flow

of time and expectation, the endless

dance of survival and desire.

What is this society but a mirror

held to the fractured heart,

reflecting our collective yearning,

the fragile hope that binds us

in the fragile light of dawn?

We walk these paths together,

yet alone, each step an echo

of ancient rituals, the silent

prayers of ancestors woven

into the fabric of our days.

Here, in the twilight of understanding,

we find ourselves again and again,

a chorus of voices rising in the dark,

each note a testament to our shared

journey, each breath a bridge to the other.

---

The River's Song

In the heart of the forest, the river sings,

a melody of movement and time,

its waters a whispered promise

to the stones that cradle its path,

to the trees that bend in silent reverence.

We stand on the bank, witnesses

to its perpetual dance, each ripple

a story, a memory carried from distant

mountains to the waiting embrace

of the endless sea.

The river knows no boundaries,

only the relentless pull of gravity,

the ceaseless journey through valleys

and plains, carving its truth into the earth,

a testament to the passage of time.

What is this river but a mirror

held to the soul's quiet depths,

reflecting the transient beauty

of existence, the fleeting moments

that define our lives?

We dip our hands into its cool embrace,

feel the flow of time between our fingers,

each drop a reminder of the impermanence,

the constant change that shapes us,

guiding us towards an unknown horizon.

The river speaks in a language

of currents and eddies, its voice

a soothing balm to the weary heart,

a lullaby of nature's persistence,

a hymn to the cycles of birth and decay.

Here, at the water's edge, we find

ourselves again and again, a reflection

in the river's glassy surface, a part

of the eternal dance, each breath

a ripple in the song of life.