Threads Against Season

Winter comes to all, yet drapes itself unevenly. For some, it curls in glass windows, breath turning to poetry, steam rising from porcelain cups, warmth measured not in cold, but in abundance. Elsewhere, winter counts coins that never existed, teaches hunger the language of frost, and leaves empty hands asking questions no season answers. Some wear warmth like habit, folded in wardrobes, replaced as days grow dull. Others cling to fragile threads, thin armour against the night, a delicate arugument with frost, survival stitch into cloth and skin. The same sky releases its cold, yet the ground receives it unequally. Winter is shared, but mercy is sewn in threads.