Winter field
Nothing here is sharp.
Even the cold has softened.
Frost settles slowly,
not as an ending,
but as a pause.
Each branch learns how to hold still,
how to carry weight without resistance.
There is no horizon in this moment.
Only layers of quiet,
one resting inside another.
Winter does not arrive loudly.
It closes in gently,
asking everything to slow down
until movement becomes listening.
This is not emptiness.
It is fullness without urgency.
six-blocks 