when the light forgets my name

When autumn folds its copper wings and settles into gray, the sun begins to speak in slants and then not much at all. The days grow short and so do I, shrinking into sweaters that cannot warm the slow dimming inside. Mornings drag their pale feet across my bedroom floor; I rise, but part of me stays sleeping in a colder place. Even joy feels out of season. a fruit I cannot bite, its sweetness locked away behind winter’s quiet glass. And still. somewhere beneath the frostbit hum of thought, a stubborn ember waits. It is small and tired and mine. I shelter it through every early dusk, trusting that light. E.ven forgotten light, returns with spring. Until then, I breathe in the dark, letting each exhale be a promise: This winter will not have the final word.