Threshold Light

The hour holds its breath between the margins— where dusk dissolves into the silver spine of water that remembers every color it has lost.

Above, the sky becomes a thousand small surrenders, each cloud a page turned backward through the day. Wind carries the scent of something green, something ending.

We stand as witnesses to this translation, watching light bend into shapes that have no names, temporary geometries that will not hold.

But in their briefness lives a kind of permanence— the way forgotten moments crystallize into the amber of what we cannot keep.