Reid@YWP

the smell of snow 

sharp and bright 

like the world holding its breath  

just before it turns new 

There is a language 
spoken only in half-glances, 
in the weight of a pause 
just before someone smiles. 

Through the knotweed. Down the ladder made of tree roots. Up onto the big rock. By the river. I stand, mud on my ankle and cuts on my knees. The sun sits just barely above the trees as the sweat sits just above my brow.

When I was small,

the sky was a storybook—

every page dotted with stars

too many to count,

each one whispering my name.

But now the nights glow

with lights that never sleep.