When the Light Returns
When the Light Returns
A leaf lies where it fell,
its ribs etched in frost,
a fragile map of pause and wintering.
Morning holds its breath.
The sun comes low—
a thin, golden blade
sliding across the frozen lines.
The frost brightens,
glittering like a promise
it’s not ready to make.
And I stand there watching,
feeling the cold in my own ribs,
wondering if anything in me
still remembers how to rise.
But something shifts—
quiet as the smallest thaw—
and deep in the leaf,
and maybe in me,
a stirring begins.