by the still-low light of winter, 
new green shoots stand glowing 
in a dull bed of brown. 
The same low light pours lovingly, 
vibrant, through the pink of your skirt. 
The warmth of it, crisp on your cheeks 
and shining from your eyes 
as you float through the field 
of brown and green. 
I guess I must be the flattened 
flaxen, warming the ground 
so that you may burst forth. 
But I am also the golden sun– 
unwavering and ubiquitous, 
summoning the spring, 
casting my glow 
wherever I climb
or fall or soar or set. 

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay