The Horizon Remembers You

The air is thick with the weight of waiting,

dawn stretching its arms over the hills,

spilling light like an old promise—

soft, steady, never in a hurry.

Barefoot, I press into the earth,

cool dampness curling around my toes.

A river hums somewhere unseen,

its voice tangled in the hush of morning.

Everything breathes before it begins.

But the trees—they do not ask why.

The sky does not question its own rising.

Only we stand in the hush of maybe,

of almost, of not yet.

And yet—

the sun does not care for hesitation.

It climbs anyway,

a golden rebellion against the dark.

So I rise too,

not because I am ready,

but because the wind has already called my name.