Abigail Nguyen

1st Place Winner

the morning learns how to be quiet by Abby Nguyen 

before the sun remembers your name, 

winter has already arrived. 

not loudly, not cruelly, 

but with the patience of something

that knows it will be felt. 

the sky tastes like metal and milk, 

cold enough to press against your tongue. 

your breath blooms and vanishes,

a small proof that you are here,

even if the world hasn’t answered yet. 

snow holds the night’s secrets

in its pale palms. 

it smells clean, almost holy,

like the pause between heartbeats,

like the inside of a church before anyone speaks. 

the ground is stiff with listening. 

every step is a question. 

ice sings under your weight, 

a thin, honest sound, 

as if earth is reminding you 

that even silence has a voice.

your fingers ache awake,

numb and burning at once, 

learning that shape of the cold

the way grief teaches you 

where you end and the world begins. 

somewhere, a door closes softly. 

a tree sheds frost like breath. 

the morning exhales light, slowly, 

spreading gold across the snow

as if forgiveness were possible,

as if starting over were natural. 

and in that fragile brightness, 

you realize winter is not empty. 

it is simply holding everything still,

teaching the world how to wait, 

how to endure without breaking,

how to shine without asking to be warm.