The Pause Between

Morning hesitates on the edge of birdsong— that breath before light fractures the dark, when the world is still half-asleep, half-awake, suspended in possibility.

Trees know this language: the waiting between root and bough, between frost and bloom, the underground patience that holds everything we see above as pure accident.

We move through our days speaking loudly to fill the silence, but it speaks back— in the space between heartbeats, between words, in the hands we almost reach for but don't.

There is an art to the pause, to standing still while the world spins its circles around you, to knowing that nothing stays broken in the hands of time.