Fracture of Light

Bare branches splinter the afternoon into copper-colored shards, each twig holding its small violence of glow.

The world pauses here— between the weight of what was and the hunger of what might be. A cardinal calls, then swallows its own name.

In the garden, frost settles on abandoned tomato cages, crystallizing the geometry of want.

Everything that grew tall now leans toward the ground, teaching us about surrender, about the grace of winter skin.