The Leaking of Light
First signs of spring
It begins with light leaking from within each gilded vein,
unfurling frond, or sunlit-rimmed fleshy paddle
of succulent tongue — the yellowing
seeps, almost unseen, into the breathy air of spring.
An explosion of chartreuse. A whisper of warmth. A pebbling
of bare skin caressed by the breeze. All reminders
that the hours are yet short, the fall of shadows still
quickly slipping into night, rather than gliding, long and lean,
into the sun’s indrawn breath.
But soon, very soon, the light will overflow the notched
bowl of the heart of the agave, and the cradle of the fern,
cascading down their limbs and pooling
upon the rich and fertile earth.
The tickle of it begins here, in the yellowing,
then explodes into being, lighting
the dark winter caverns of my heart.
Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies). Erika is also an editor for Mindfully Speaking.
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Poem and photo ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.
