Thresholds

Morning breaks its seal on the windowsill. The spider's web holds seven drops of light— each one a lens that trembles toward the sun.

I've learned the grammar of waiting: how silence opens doors, how absence takes the shape of presence. The garden knows this. The stones know.

Between the breath and the breathing, between the question and its echo, something green insists on growing— patient, unremarkable, true.

Time is a threshold we cross without knowing we've crossed it. Then we turn around and the world looks entirely different, lit from beneath by what we've left behind.