The Edge of the water

A hush leans into the hour—

not silence, exactly,

but a listening so deep

it hums.

The lake forgets to move.

Not a leaf trembles.

Somewhere, an eagle lands for a break on the tree

The sun

holds its breath

on the lip of the pine.

This is the moment

before the wind remembers

its name.

The light shifts—

not brighter,

not softer,

just elsewhere,

as if the world turned

its face slightly,

and in that glance

I saw it.

A bee constantly suspended,

wings drawn tight as wire,

glinting like truth

you hadn’t known you knew.

And maybe it’s summer.

Or memory,

curled like smoke

inside your ribs.

Maybe it’s nothing

but the shape your breath makes

as it leaves your mouth.

But it stays

a glimmer caught

just beneath

the skin of water.