The Light

Morning arrives like a slow-blooming ember,

stretching golden fingers through the trees,

stirring the hush of something unnamed—

a quiet hum beneath the ribs,

a rhythm older than language itself.

The river does not ask where it’s going,

only moves, only sings,

only carries the sky in broken reflections

without needing to mend it.

And maybe that’s enough—

to let the wind braid itself through your hair,

to feel the earth hum beneath your step,

to know the sun does not shine for you,

but with you.

But then, the turn—

the breath before flight,

the space between knowing and feeling.

Because joy is not a thing you chase,

not a prize waiting at some imagined ending.

It is the hand outstretched mid-laughter,

the warmth of rain on upturned palms,

the way light finds you—

even when you aren’t looking.

And so, I let it.

Let the sky spill over me,

let the earth remember my name,

let the river keep its secrets.

For today, I am here.

For today, I am enough.