The Threshold Light

The light refracts through prism-glass, bending blue to amber, amber to ash. Nothing moves except the dust, caught mid-spiral in the golden slant.

Outside, the world arranges itself in orderly decline—trees casting longer shadows than they are tall, the geometry of seasons turning.

I could measure this: the angle of sun, the temperature of silence before crickets. But numbers would miss the trembling— how color holds its breath.

The room forgets itself in the threshold between day and dark, that brief conspiracy of light before the world remembers how to sleep.