Threshold Light

The window holds its breath at dusk, gold bleeding into violet. A moth circles the bulb— not seeking warmth, but the edge where dark and brightness kiss.

I think of all the small surrenders: how the day lets go, how silence gathers like dust on the sill, patient, waiting for the sweep.

Trees become their own shadows. The world softens at the seams. In this fold between what was and what arrives, even breathing feels like a form of prayer.