FebulousFebruary 2026: The Old Photograph

Spring

At Imbolc, the light rehearses
its return, a quiet promise
tucked in the pocket of the cold.

I hold the photograph
edges soft as the scarves we wore,
steam of our laughter rising
from mouths unafraid of winter.
We were gathered on steps, knees touching,
boots scuffed with salt and hope.

Arms slung around shoulders,.
the camera caught what we could not name,
a tenderness practicing its womans shape.
We played with time,
waiting for our spring,
for something yet unnamed to knock.

Imbolc knows this moment.
It hums beneath the frost,
candles learning how to be suns.
In the photo, our faces tilt
toward a future like thawing ground,
dark, rich, ready.

We were bright as wick and flame,
friends braided together,
girls becoming women without asking permission.
Snow still on the ground, yes,
but look how the light keeps finding us,
even then, even now.

Lel Meleyal, Scarborough