Prism

Water holds the sun in its palms, breaks it into swimming colors— gold fragments dance across stone, then disappear when clouds pass.

A child's hand disrupts the surface, and suddenly there is no light, only rings of absence spreading, the brightness scattered into chaos.

But it returns. Always returns. The water remembers how to hold what falls from above, patiently reconstructs the shattered image.

We are like this too—broken open by seasons we don't choose, learning to catch the light again in new configurations, new angles.