Still Learning Warmth

The sky forgot to promise warmth,

and I didn’t ask.

I just watched my breath

write brief poems in the air,

watched the wind rearrange

what I wasn’t meant to keep.

Every season tells the same truth —

nothing stays soft forever.

But maybe that’s the point:

to stay gentle anyway,

to find heat

in the smallest acts —

a glove,

a glance,

the memory of sunlight

in someone’s laugh.

I used to chase the warmth,

now I carry it.

Now I know —

you don’t wait for spring

to feel alive.

You learn to glow

under cold things.