The turning of the light.
Colonizing a sand pit above the Connecticut River.
December beaver pond in Northfield, MA.
Upon remembering again for the first time.
A name to the face, at long last.
A pale cousin of its dainty kin.
A fresh scent by the river’s edge.
A sea of late summer sunshine.
The brightest of a multitude.
Sculpted delicacy in the dampness.