Apricity

In the hush of winter’s grip,

when breath curls in the brittle air,

and the world wears white

like a shroud for dreaming things,

there comes a warmth so gentle,

it feels like memory—

the sun’s golden whisper

on skin long numb to touch.

It is a kindness out of season,

a soft rebellion against the frost,

breaking through the pewter sky

to land, trembling, on my face.

For a moment, I am summer’s child,

unfolding like a leaf

beneath a fleeting sunbeam,

believing in thaw.

Oh, how it lingers,

this impossible warmth,

this fickle lover of the cold.

Its touch does not promise spring—

no bud, no bloom, no turning green.

It is only this:

a fleeting grace,

a gift: presence

to be felt and gone.

And yet, it holds me whole,

a reminder that even in the dead of winter,

there is fire in the sky,

and life in the ashes.