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.