The Grammar of Light

Morning opens its book without noise.
No bell is rung, no voice is named.
Light arrives the way truth often does—
patient, unannounced, undeniable.

The road remembers every footstep
but keeps no record of faces.
It knows weight, not identity,
direction, not destination.

Mountains stand like old teachers,
their lessons carved in silence.
They say: remain, even when weather argues.
They say: height is earned by pressure.

Wind edits the trees,
crossing out weak branches,
leaving space for stronger sentences
to grow toward the sky.

A lantern hangs unused,
not broken, not forgotten—
only waiting for the right darkness
to become necessary.

Somewhere, a river practices patience,
moving without applause,
polishing stones into smooth answers
no question remembers asking.

Time walks beside everything
and calls it growth.
It does not rush the seed,
does not praise the harvest.

Even silence has a pulse here.
It beats between moments,
teaching the heart how to listen
without demanding reply.

This is how meaning is made:
not by shouting,
not by naming heroes,
but by showing up again and again,
faithful as sunrise,
humble as dust on the road.

And when light finally fills the pass,
nothing claims it.
The world simply understands itself
a little more clearly than before.