Threshold Light

The sky holds its breath at the edge of color— not quite blue, not quite the violet it was, suspended in that moment before the world remembers how to wake.

A sparrow crosses the silence. Its wings write something in the still air that dissolves the instant after, a sentence in a language only light can read.

I am learning again to be alone without the ache of it, the way stone learns to hold water— not fighting, but yielding in the slow hours between dark and name.

The first ray touches the wet grass and something in me answers, a small bright knot untying, the long night finally letting go its grip on what I thought I was.

Morning arrives like a forgotten word on the tip of a sleeping tongue— inevitable, tender, unchanged.