When I am older, frost will write my name
on every windowpane I pressed my dreams against;
the wind that once frightened me
will braid my hair with secrets of the road.
I’ll trade these small, shaking hands
for palms that hold the hush of northern lights,
and every echo I let go tonight
will come back a choir, teaching me the syllables of home.
Time, keep walking; I’ll catch you in a song
only the snow remembers,
and sing it backward till the cold becomes a cradle,
till every lost footprint grows into a garden beneath the ice.