A lantern lives in the hush of autumn,

not gold, not green, not brown 

but a seam between seasons,

The hush where leaves hesitate to fall.

It is the color of rain when it lingers,

of woodsmoke dreaming in a meadow,

Of fire softened into moss.

No map dares hold it,

for it shifts with the hour,

a tide pulled by hidden constellations.

In such light, silence grows radiant,

Shadows forget their weight,

And a gaze becomes a spell 

rewriting the wanderer into belonging,

turning questions into answers

Without a single word spoken.

Worlds tremble to gather there,

for in that mercurial glow

Light itself confesses its secret:

It was never meant to be pure,

but woven

wild, tender, infinite

Into the shade of one unrepeatable flame