Lightward

The gate swings open,
a mouth yawning after winter’s theft.
They spill lightward,
testing the ground as if they’d forgotten
what it means to hold weight.
Each step, an apology—
but to what? To whom?

Before them: spring’s first gift,
peppered with dew,
a table set without hands.
Their bodies remember—
not joy, not yet, but motion.
How to step outside walls
without falling apart.

And then—
as if shocked by paddles,
one leaps. Then another.
Their bodies uncoil in joy,
a ceremony of gratitude
for the feast beneath them,
for winter’s fateful end.

Each step, earth’s silent embrace,
an old friend watching from below,
knowing they would return.
Not because they have to—
but because they forgot how not to.