“Where Light Finds the Surface”

Beneath a shrine of cedar hush,

spring’s first breath skirts the stillness—

a hush so deep

even sparrows bow to it.

A single petal,

born of winter’s last regret,

drifts down the surface

of a pond unbroken—

until now.

The ripple is not loud.

Not urgent.

Only the kind of truth

that waits to be noticed.

Summer hums beyond the reeds.

Cicadas tuning the strings of heat.

But here—

a glint,

a pause,

a soft exhale between moments.

Autumn lingers on the edge of thought.

You feel it not in wind,

but in the way light brushes

your wrist

like memory warming skin

long forgotten.

And winter?

It doesn’t speak.

Just folds the sky into paper,

tucks it neatly behind bare branches,

and whispers:

This is what you came for.

The world doesn’t move.

It shifts.

And in that shift,

you finally see—

not all change is noise.

Not all silence is still.