Frosty Winters Eve
I was sitting, peeking out my window,
watching snow fall thin and slow.
The street lay still, the hour late,
the kind of quiet you can’t escape.
The porch light hummed, the cold crept in,
though every lock was turned within.
I traced my breath upon the glass,
counting seconds as they passed.
Then in the corner of my eye,
a shape appeared, tall, dark, and dry.
It stood beneath the streetlight’s glow,
yet left no mark upon the snow.
No breath, no step, no shape I knew,
yet there it stood, solid, true.
Too still to be a trick of sight,
too wrong to stand there in the light.
I blinked once
it drifted near,
close enough to taste my fear.
I blinked again
it slipped away,
farther out in shadow’s sway.
Like it was playing games with me,
testing what my eyes could see.
Not coming in, not leaving yet,
just closing space, then placing bets.
Its head bent slow, not left or right,
but straight toward me through the light.
I felt it then, a knowing chill
it knew I stood here, silent, still.
I was alone, the house was bare,
no one else was anywhere.
And in that quiet, cold, and deep,
I knew it watched me watch it back.
The snow kept falling, soft and blind,
as if to bury what I’d find.
I pulled the curtain, killed the light,
and didn’t look again that night.
But sometimes now, when snow falls slow,
I feel it standing, watching still
waiting for me at my window.
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