she sits on a sagging stump,
a cool dampness spreading across
the warm skin of legs as she
watches the world move around
her, hours passing by.

it's been a soft winter,
a breeze compared to the
chilling draft of what it usually is,
icicles sprouting from windowsills 
and snowflakes landing in the whites
of her eyes.

the world sits still around her 
most days, and while she drinks 
hot tea and picks at chapped lips,
she thinks of a boy.
she thinks of how
winter can be cruel and kind
and so confusing.