Fragments of Light

Morning coffee steam curls like forgotten names, the kitchen window frames November's skeleton trees. I am ordinary, moving through ordinary hours.

Then—light catches the rim of a glass, splits into spectrum, briefly paints my hands in colors I didn't know I needed. The moment dissolves. I'm left holding warmth.

We spend our lives collecting fragments, believing them whole. A glance that meant something, a word that stayed when others scattered. Small prisms that teach us how to shine.

Even now, in this ordinary room, light is fracturing through something transparent— maybe glass, maybe the space between us and stillness— reminding me that clarity doesn't need to last to change what sees it.