Windowlight

Morning pours itself in rectangles, each pane a separate country of warmth— the desk, the wall, your hand reaching through the geometry of glass and time.

By noon the squares have shifted, become accusations of summer, bright proofs that nothing stays in its appointed place.

The afternoon deepens them into gold, thick enough to drink, thick enough to hold the dust motes dancing like small forgivenesses.

And evening steals it all back, gradual and kind, leaving only the cold geometry of frames, the memory of heat in stone.