Light Breaks Water

The lake holds its breath

as morning leans in —

gold unraveling

on the skin of stillness.

No wind.

No wing.

Just the hush

before the hush breaks.

Then,

light—

not loud,

but certain—

dips a finger into glass,

and the surface sighs.

Ripples bloom

like thoughts

you almost forgot you had.

They scatter the sky

into shards

of blue and becoming.

I watch.

Not for answers,

but for the way

a quiet thing

can choose to glow

before it speaks.

And in that moment,

nothing moves —

but everything shifts.