Meridian

A shaft of light collects at noon, bending through dust motes like a congregation— each particle a small mercy, a witness. The sun tilts toward the western wall, indifferent to the shadows we cast.

We gather what glimmers: coins scattered across a threshold, the gilt edge of yesterday's pages, the amber warning in a lover's eye before they turn to leave.

Nothing holds. Even stillness moves through us like breath, like the slow erosion of stone under infinite ordinary weather, like names worn soft at the edges of memory.

But here—in this exact angle, this unrepeatable arrangement of light and silence— something catches, crystallizes into meaning. We are the axis upon which the entire year pivots.