First Silver

Caught in the mirror’s breath,

a single thread defies the dark,

a crack in the usual pattern,

shining stubborn and clear.

I pick at it, hesitant,

a question caught in the fingers,

a trace of time’s slow erasure,

a silent sign I wasn’t ready for.

Silver hangs like a secret,

one strand whispering seasons passed,

while the rest still holds

its usual weight.

I look again, searching,

for a line between then and now,

but the gray holds steady,

not asking permission.