The Long Way Through Winter

Winter does not arrive loudly.

It steps in the way careful people do,

closing doors without slamming them,

lowering the sky until even thoughts

must learn to speak softly.

The road I walk has forgotten color.

Everything bright has been revised

into shades of patience—

gray holding white,

white holding silence.

Even my shadow hesitates,

as if unsure it belongs here.

Cold tightens the air.

Not cruelly.

Precisely.

Each breath becomes deliberate,

each exhale a brief confession

that disappears before it can be corrected.

I walk not to reach a place,

but to keep the ground honest beneath me.

The earth is firm today,

unwilling to forgive careless steps.

It asks for balance.

It asks for attention.

It asks me to be present

in ways warmth never required.

Somewhere behind me

are the seasons that rushed.

Summer, loud with promises.

Autumn, dramatic with endings.

They offered distraction easily.

Winter does not.

Winter removes decoration

until only structure remains.

Trees stand like unfinished sentences.

They do not explain themselves.

They do not apologize for their bareness.

They have already learned

what I am still practicing:

how to remain without performing.

Snow remembers everything briefly,

then forgives.

Footprints appear, linger,

and soften into something anonymous.

Proof that effort happened.

Proof that effort did not need

to last forever.

I stop walking for a moment

and the world does not respond.

No signal.

No acknowledgment.

Stillness accepts me

without ceremony.

This is where the mind grows louder

before it grows calm.

Old conversations return,

unfinished plans rehearse themselves,

regrets test their weight

against the quiet.

But winter is patient.

It does not argue.

It waits until thoughts

grow tired of repeating themselves

and lie down.

Movement resumes.

One step.

Another.

Not progress measured in distance,

but in willingness.

The cold reaches my hands,

my face,

places I used to guard carefully.

Now I let it touch me.

It reminds me where the edges are.

It reminds me that feeling

does not always need comfort

to be real.

Somewhere ahead,

the road curves gently,

not offering a view of what comes next.

I follow anyway.

Trust grows best

when it is not rewarded immediately.

The sky lowers further,

pressing its quiet weight

onto everything beneath it.

I think of all the times

I mistook pressure for failure,

silence for absence,

waiting for being lost.

Winter corrects these misunderstandings

without speaking.

I am not behind.

I am not stuck.

I am here—

inside a season that values

endurance over speed,

presence over performance.

When the wind moves through the open field,

it carries no message.

It does not warn or invite.

It simply passes through,

unconcerned with whether it is noticed.

I envy that freedom briefly,

then realize it is already teaching me

how to loosen my grip.

The walk continues

until the body warms itself

through persistence alone.

No sudden relief.

No dramatic turning point.

Just the quiet reward

of continuing.

At some point,

I understand this is not a journey

toward something new,

but a return

to a slower understanding

of what has always been enough.

Winter does not promise arrival.

It promises honesty.

And so I keep walking,

not because the path is easy,

but because it no longer asks me

to be anything other

than attentive,

upright,

and willing to remain

until the season finishes

saying what it came to say.