The Dreamer's Pen

Winter moonbeams wander wide,
across the fields where shadows hide,
they spill like whispers, soft and cold,
on branches bare and stories old.

They weave through night’s crystalline breath,
between the stars and earth’s quiet death,
etching frost on windowpanes,
where longing lingers and silence reigns.

They lace the world in silver threads,
crown the pines and rooftops’ heads,
glow on paths that few have known,
a gentle light for the alone.

Yet in their pale, celestial grace,
there lies a warmth no sun could trace,
a tender touch, serene and slight,
that soothes the ache of endless night.

So let them drift, let them gleam,
these fragments of a dreamer’s dream,
born of ice and midnight’s hue,
winter moonbeams, pure and true.