Light Through

Water holds the sun differently— refracts it into smaller suns, each ripple a prism folding white into blue, into green, into the memory of warmth we cannot quite touch.

Glass remembers what it was: sand, granular and formless, transformed by fire into clarity, into the illusion of nothing standing between the watcher and the watched.

But light through leaves—now that's a conversation. The green speaks back, swallows green, spits out the rest in scattered coins of gold that buy nothing but time.

In closed rooms, light becomes the thief, stealing color from forgotten walls, pooling in corners where no one looks, patient and relentless as the turning of the earth.