Light Through Water

A moment catches fire beneath the surface, gold threading through the dark, then scatters into nothing the way certainty dissolves in cold water.

I hold it in my palms like breath— each second a small glass bead that rolls and catches light, then slips between my fingers.

The tree outside my window sheds its names. What was shadow becomes geometry, becomes the memory of shadow, becomes something I cannot quite remember seeing.

And still the light keeps falling, indifferent to my watching, refracting through the space between what I knew and what dissolves.