Threshold

Between the dark and the day, your body still waters, the world not yet solid.

A shaft of light slides across the floor like a hand remembering its touch. The birds outside have begun their arguments— small, insistent, true.

You could stay here, suspended in the amber of almost-waking, where nothing is asked of you yet. But the light is patient. It moves toward you anyway.

The day will find you. It always does. Even this small rebellion of lying still is a kind of surrender.