It's Still Life

The Coming

I stirred the embers with a bone-handled spoon, watching the light ebb from the fields. The year was thinning; even the crows sounded hollow. Yet I smiled, for then and not yesterday, I learned to know the love of bare November days before the coming of the snow. It was a respect without warmth, but with truth: the kind that stripped away softness and left only what could endure. I wrapped my shawl tight, whispering thanks to what slept beneath the frozen herbs, to the trees that still held their shapes in wind. Tomorrow would bring frost, then silence. But that night, I brewed comfort from leaf and memory, and let the last flame teach me how to rest.