Where the Light Touches

There is a still that comes

before the hour knows its name,

no silence,

but something listening.

The air, soft as breath against skin,

waits. And in the waiting,

you almost forget

the noise you came from.

Then,

a shift.

No thunderclap,

no blaze,

just the gentle landing

of morning

on the curve of a leaf.

Light doesn’t shout.

It arrives.

It finds what has been waiting

to be seen.

A single line of gold

across the glass,

warming the air

like a benediction.

It never asks if you are ready.

It never warns

this is the moment

everything begins again.

You remember:

you are still here.

And the pull of that

is holy.

You carry grief

like sea-glass in your pocket,

sharp edges smoothed

by the turning tides.

Even that is touched

by this light.

It falls across your shoulders,

tender and unearned,

and suddenly,

you are more than ache.

You are breath,

you are held,

you are part of the sky’s

quiet turning.

Somewhere, a bird lifts.

Somewhere, the water stirs.

And though everything appears the same,

everything has changed.

Let the moment stay,

just a little.

Let it be enough

that the light found you

and you let it.