The moon spills its milk
over rooftops and frozen streets,
a quiet river of light
flowing through the city’s bones.

Snow deepens, darkens,
swallowing footprints,
holding the hush of a world
slowed by the weight of cold.

The lamps are ashes, cold stars,
flickering in the frozen mist,
burnt-out echoes of warmth
against the endless dark.

A hush lingers in the air,
breath suspended like glass,
the solstice stretching its long fingers
over the sleeping earth.