Eternal Spring — The Moment Before the Fall

There are moments in life when beauty feels almost unbearable — when it’s so pure, so radiant, that we sense its impermanence even as we’re living it. Eternal Spring was born from that sensation: the ache that comes not from loss itself, but from knowing that every blossom will one day fall.

This poem isn’t about grief. It’s about reverence — for that brief window of perfection that exists before the inevitable descent.

Before the pomegranate, before the fall, before the shadow of consequence — there was light. There was a girl who walked among flowers, untouched by time, holding eternity in her hands.

In writing Eternal Spring, I thought about the courage it takes to remain open to wonder even when we know how fragile it is. Spring doesn’t ask to be remembered; it blooms knowing it will fade. Yet it returns, year after year, with the same reckless grace. I think that’s what art is meant to do — to bloom again, despite the certainty of its end.

The poem follows that same rhythm: of light touching shadow, of youth meeting awareness, of divine innocence standing before the knowledge of mortality. It’s not nostalgia for what’s lost — it’s gratitude for what was ever possible.

Because before every fall, there is an ascent.

Before every silence, there is a song.

And before darkness whispers its claim, something eternal speaks — through us, through art, through love.

Perhaps that’s all we can ever do as poets: hold the light a little longer before the dusk.

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