Seasonal Light Through Glass

Winter refracted through frosted panes, geometry of frost and want. The light comes pale, arriving sideways, painting the room in gradients of ash.

Spring melts the edges clean—suddenly the world is vivid, unfiltered, too much brightness for eyes accustomed to dimness.

Summer holds the light so long we forget the dark exists at all, the window becomes a threshold, inside and outside blur to one amber glow.

Autumn arrives with dust motes, visible proof of the air we breathe, and light becomes honey-thick, something we could almost hold.