Before the days were even,
the light arrived carefully.

 

It stayed low.
It left early.

 

The ground held the cold.

 

Piplet was already there.

 

Small.
Open.

Bright enough to be noticed.

 

Not bright enough to change the day.

 

She did not look for warmth.
She did not wait for a sign.

 

She stayed where she was
while the days were still shorter than the nights.

 

Some mornings, frost returned.
Some afternoons, it did not.

 

Piplet stayed.

 

Then, one day,

the world held.

 

Not longer.
Not shorter.

 

Just even.

 

During that stillness,
a butterfly passed.

 

She did not stop.
She did not turn.

 

Color moved with her.

 

It did not rush.
It did not scatter.

 

It settled.

 

Piplet felt it first.

 

Not as warmth.
Not as a signal.

 

Her color deepened.

 

The purple grew steadier.
The yellow grew brighter.

 

Around her,
the light shifted.

 

The air felt less sharp.
The ground loosened slightly.

 

The world breathed out.

 

Then the holding loosened.

 

The days tipped longer.

 

Light stayed.

 

She did not grow taller.

 

She simply stood,
fully herself,

in a day that now matched her.

 

Others noticed.

 

Not because she had changed her shape,
but because the day had changed around her.

 

The butterfly was gone.

 

Color was not.

 

Piplet stayed—
bright,
early,
and no longer alone in it.

 

Spring had turned.