by the still-low 
light of winter, 
new green shoots 
burst, glowing 
from a dull bed 
of brown. 
The same low light 
pours lovingly, 
vibrant in your 
pink tulle and rose 
on your cheeks, 
as you move through 
the sea 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– 
and ancient as I 
summon the spring, 
as I climb and fall, 
soar and set.