I think maybe, winterís more like a coma than a death.
This occurred to me in that period of time before dawn,
the ancient mornings where everything is illuminated
by a pale blue light, the wide expanses of suburban pavement with each
nook and cranny in between perfectly clear, visible, and soft on the eyes
with no sun shining overhead. The remnants of which are
fossilized in clouds of plentiful texture. Suspended, no, but
animated languidly in a catatonic state. Akin to still trunks dotted along roads
and their leafless branches, fingers brittle and dry but flickering in an
invisible touch of wind, even when everything is frozen.
Slowing, I supposed while waiting against the sunrise, is not the same
as stopping. Just as the howling blizzards of time occupied an indigo sky
while right now, fluffy white tufts nomadic within a baby blue exhale on.
Every passing second a different shade of the same colour.