Water Holds the Light

Morning light breaks against still water, each ripple a brief architecture of gold, holding itself for seconds before scattering into a thousand smaller suns.

By noon the lake has forgotten how to keep its secrets. The surface blazes— unbearable, forcing us to look away. Everything is too bright to be beautiful.

But evening returns the gentleness. Water becomes glass again, becomes mirror, holding the last light like a cupped hand— rose, amber, that blue that has no name.

We cannot stay. The dark is coming. Yet for these few minutes we stand here, half-remembered in the reflection, learning again what it means to be held.