Black mornings promise everything, if the eyes can be believed. Well hell, there may be lilacs blooming out there now. But the air smells of snow, and the quietness speaks of change, and as I pull my robe around me I realize there is cold.
I stick my tongue out in the space to taste the dawn and find it cool and clean. And though my eyes held opportunity and conjured tales of new green leaves, I doubted and find the truth comes with the light.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology