I was winter’s child,
wrapped in borrowed wool,
breath small as frost on windowpanes.
The world outside was brittle then,
trees bare-boned against
a sky that never learned warmth,
roads lined with grit and quiet.
Inside, there was laughter,
steam from mugs that fogged
the kitchen glass,
a lullaby of radiators clanking
as if they too
were proud to keep me alive.
January taught me patience—
that buds sleep long before they bloom,
that light returns in rationed teaspoons,
that beginnings aren’t always bright,
but they are strong.
And so when I look back,
I see my first days threaded with cold,
yet stitched with care,
a child born not to fireworks,
but to the hush of snow,
the steady hands of a year
just learning how to start again.
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