The night lets go in trembling threads of grey
a hush still clings to roofs and sleeping trees;
the air tastes faint of rain, of earth’s slow sway.
While sparrows stitch the silent into pleas
A single sunbeam spills like molten glass,
it warms the frost that clings to windows’ breath;
each shade bends, allows the light to pass
and trades its quiet shape for life from death
We rise , not knowing what the hours will keep,
yet carry in our chests that tender spark – the fragile flame