The wind has a mind of its own tonight—
it slips between the ribs of the trees,
a steady hand brushing the world
into the shape of silence.

Somewhere a barn door swings,
creaking against the weight of snow.
The road, once clear, now folds
under its own forgetting.

I’ve seen men try to reason
with the frost—
their breath a thin argument
against the patience of ice.

And women, too,
who gather kindling and sorrow
in the same small arms,
lighting what warmth they can.

What verdict could matter now?
The stars are too far,
and judgment is a comfort
we pretend to understand.

So I keep a single horn—
its note buried deep in my coat pocket—
and dream of trading it one day
for a loaf of freedom,
or a handful of time.

Tonight, the hill village sleeps.
A lamp flickers its anxious wings
behind a curtain of frost.
The earth curls inward,
like a body keeping one last breath.

There’s no grand lesson here—
just footprints that lead nowhere,
and the whisper of wool half-knitted,
waiting for hands that will not return.

Still, I walk.
Not to arrive,
but because the road itself
asks to be remembered.

And that, perhaps,
is all the warmth winter allowing.

– Note:

This poem is not merely about a season. It is a meditation on a particular winter—South Korea in 1980—when the air itself seemed to carry the weight of silence, fear, and disorientation. In the wake of political upheaval and military rule, the nation stood suspended between grief and waiting. Words were watched. Streets were hushed. And the only hope that remained was the kind that could not speak its name.

“Winter” attempts to trace the emotional landscape of that time: the quiet despair of those who had no choice but to endure, the small gestures of resistance hidden in daily life, and the deep longing for a freedom that felt impossibly distant. The horn tucked in a coat pocket, the lamp flickering behind frost, the unfinished wool—all are symbols of lives paused, voices muted, and dreams deferred.

There is no grand resolution here. No triumphant return. Only the act of walking—without knowing where to go—because the road itself must be remembered. That, perhaps, is the only warmth winter allows.

© TaeHun Yoon, 1980