Amber Light

Morning amber pools across the sill, fingers of dust catching what falls— I gather the hours in a mason jar, pretend they are coins, pretend they have value beyond their weight.

The trees release their brightness slowly, leaf by leaf, a language of letting go. I watch from windows that have forgotten how to open. The glass keeps its distance, holds me safe from change.

Some seasons hide inside others. I've learned this—how winter sleeps beneath the skin of autumn, how spring waits in the silence of a held breath, patient as a seed.

Now light arrives differently. It asks nothing of me, only passes through.