Resilient Light

This morning began with a crack—

a seam in the sky,

light slipping through like it forgot

something important on the other side.

And I stood there, half-dressed in silence,

coffee cooling beside me,

watching the steam curl up

like it had somewhere better to be.

Grief doesn’t ask for permission.

It arrives barefoot,

trailing the scent of yesterday’s rain,

sits beside you

and says nothing at all.

Birdsong still happens, though.

Unapologetic.

And somewhere, moss grows thick

on stone that hasn’t been touched in years.

—Then something turns.

Not loudly.

Just enough for me to notice

how the wind doesn’t wait

for my okay to keep moving.

How the trees bend,

but don’t break

even when no one is watching.

So I sit. I breathe.

I let the ache exist

without needing to explain it.

And somehow, in all this undone,

there’s a kind of rhythm forming—

like a river learning its name again

after the drought.

I don’t know what tomorrow will ask of me,

but I know this—

the light, however fractured,

still finds its way in.