Threshold

Before the light finds names for things, the dark holds its breath. In this suspension, even stones seem to listen.

The threshold opens both ways— towards what was, towards what arrives. We stand in its hinge, unsure which direction we'll turn.

A bird calls once, then silence swallows the sound whole. This is where forgetting becomes memory, where memory becomes dust.

Nothing is certain except the waiting. The slow lean of the world toward morning. Everything else is just a beautiful pretending.