The late winter stillness in the air,
inhales with crushing despair -
a density so oppressive and heavy.

Exhales wind through trees,
on the cusp of spring -
pleading to a sun that isn't quite ready.

Still, it's enough to be heard,
the season's last gasp of words,
rattles out before fully breaking.

The final breeze cuts through,
a terrain that's already bruised,
a tender skin it can't stop shedding.

The snow that fell so light,
bleeds way into the night,
surrendering to time that is ever-changing.

The sky still darkens the same,
but winter's still afraid,
of a moon overhead still phasing.

© Merrr