Light Threading Through

Morning light slants through bare branches, each ray a thin gold thread stitching the world back together after the long dark.

My hands remember the weight of stone, of soil, of seasons turning their slow wheel— how nothing stays, how everything returns.

The birds know this. They arrive before the leaves, singing the green back into being, their throats small suns.

I am still learning the grammar of letting go and holding on, how to be both the branch and the light that passes through.