Waiting in the cold

Morning arrives cloaked in gray,
an indifferent haze that presses
against the windows, whispering,
Stay in bed. What’s the point?
The cold bites deep—
it settles in the bones, the mind,
where it gnaws away at warmth.

I move slower these days,
as though wading through syrup,
each movement agonizing
each task a mountain,
each hour a foggy expanse with
no glimmer of the distant shore.

Still, I light candles
and watch them flicker in defiance,
their fragile flames
casting light powerful enough
to remind me— that this darkness
will not last forever.

There is the coming spring,
a promise buried beneath the ice.
I hold on, even if by a thread
because I know 
the sun will soon return
to warm the corners of 
this heavy heart.