Threshold Light

The sun forgets itself in amber, leaving bronze fingerprints on the lake— not quite gold, not shadow, a color the eye invents between what was and what's coming.

I stand where the pier meets water, listening to the in-between: wind that doesn't know which direction, birds saying goodbye in a language I almost speak.

Something is gathering in the margins, in the space between breath and silence, where meaning trembles like a caught breath and nothing is settled, nothing is still.

The world softens at its edges. I become permeable—letting the light through, letting it pass, understanding at last that arrival was never the point.