What the Light Knows

There is a moment—
right before the leaf trembles,
before the bird calls morning into the trees,
when the world holds its breath
and doesn’t know why.

The light doesn’t ask permission.
It just arrives—
spilling gold across grass,
warming the back of a hand
that forgot what softness felt like.

In that hush,
I remember you.
Not in the loud way memory sometimes screams,
but in a breath caught
between blink and dawn.
Your name floats there,
a pollen drift across my ribs.

The spoon in the sink glints.
My daughter turns in her sleep.
The air stirs—not quite a wind,
just enough to say:
I’m here. I’m still becoming.

Maybe this is what grace feels like—
not the thunder, not the flood,
but a single ray
breaking through the blinds,
finding the surface of my skin,
and staying.