Flicker of the First Snow

I remember the day

when snow began softly

not enough to settle,

just enough to notice.

It was as if the sky

woke up with regret,

curving around the world

to touch everything carefully,

even things that no one saw.

I stood at the window,

a silent witness

to winter's promise

arriving quietly,

beneath the hum of traffic

and the heat of streetlamps.

That day I realized:

some beginnings are strange

not wrapped in ribbons,

just hovering

like a breath

you almost missed.

I learned then that growth

doesn't always roar.

Sometimes it flutters,

like a first snowflake

on your eyelashes,

and melts before you know it.

There are days I carry that memory

in pockets of longing

hoping for a cold sky

that hasn't forgotten how to forgive.

Because even if spring is coming,

even if my heart thaws again

I'll always remember the softness

of that single, perfect snowflake.