The Threshold of White

The world is caught in a silver breath, Between the autumn’s sleep and spring’s slow wake. The morning air, a sharp and sudden glass, Reflects the resolutions that we make.

Old shadows stretch across the crust of snow, While iron branches sketch the pale blue sky. The garden dreams of colors yet to grow, As all the ghosts of last year softly die.

It is the month of doors and inward fires, Of quiet hearths and ink on pristine pages. A steady pulse beneath the frozen mires, The silent turning of the winter’s ages.

No rush of bloom, no heat of golden sun, Just the clean, cold grace of being new. The long, dark race is finally undone; The year begins in white, and still, and true.