February is a transition, the pause between tired festivities and the unfurling of the awakening earth; it is the season of snowdrops, yet the calendar holds it breath against a vista of grey light and skeletal trees, waiting for more; I feel myself soften like the snow, melting as the frost dissipates, while the ghost of March hums beneath the slush; February is a month of waiting, and I count the minutes of extra light as they stretch, like a promise, across the thawing ground.
This is gorgeous β February as a held breath. βthe ghost of March / hums beneath the slushβ is such a clean, haunting line, and that last image of extra light stretching βlike a promiseβ landed right in my chest. π¨οΈπ±
This is gorgeous β February as a held breath. βthe ghost of March / hums beneath the slushβ is such a clean, haunting line, and that last image of extra light stretching βlike a promiseβ landed right in my chest. π¨οΈπ±
Thank you. Iβm so glad you like it.
Soften against the snow :) I love that line π
Snowdrops are so magical to me
When the snow disappears,
it doesn't do it all at once,
the particles of white first becoming
transparent, and liquid,
before trickling away to feed.
.
Ice crystals give way
to the stuff of life,
a reflection of the seasons,
one bleeding into the other
whilst we are hung in expectation.