The Ink That Found Its Sunrise

Mira had always believed that morning light carried its own kind of poetry. It slipped into the world quietly, softening everything it touched. But lately, she felt no connection to those first rays of the day. Her pen lay untouched, and the blank pages in her journal seemed to echo her uncertainty.

For years, writing had been Mira’s companion—her way of expressing what she couldn’t speak aloud. She wrote about seasons changing, about laughter drifting between doorways, about the invisible threads that link people to one another. But as life became busier, and worries accumulated like unopened letters, her creative spark dimmed.

One morning, she sat on her small balcony with a cup of warm tea. The sun was rising, turning the rooftops into softened shapes of gold and pink. The air smelled of dew and quiet beginnings, but the beauty felt distant, as though she were watching her life through a window.

“I can’t feel anything to write about anymore,” she whispered.

At that moment, her neighbor, Mr. Haleem, stepped onto his balcony. He was an elderly man known for tending to his flowers and humming old songs that carried across the courtyard.

“You’re up early, Mira,” he called gently. “Everything alright?”

She hesitated, then nodded politely. But something in her expression must have given her away.

He smiled kindly. “You look like someone searching for something.”

Mira sighed. “I used to write poetry every day. Now I hardly recognize the person who wrote those words.”

Mr. Haleem leaned on his railing. “Tell me something,” he said. “When you look at that sunrise, what do you see?”

Mira blinked. “I… don’t know anymore.”

He chuckled softly. “Then perhaps you’re looking too hard.”

She turned toward him, curious.

“You know,” he continued, “people think poets need grand inspiration. Lightning moments. Extraordinary stories. But the truth is simpler. Poetry grows from noticing small things—things that most people walk past without seeing.”

He gestured toward the potted jasmine plant beside him. “This little flower bloomed today. Just one. The rest are still waiting. But this one decided to open anyway. Isn't that something?”

Mira looked at the jasmine. Its single white bloom glowed in the sunlight, gentle but confident.

Before she could respond, Mr. Haleem added, “Sometimes we expect ourselves to bloom every day. But even flowers take their time.”

The words settled into her like warm rain.

After he went back inside, Mira stayed on the balcony, listening to the distant calls of vendors and the sound of early birds darting between rooftops. The world was waking up, soft and unhurried. She opened her journal—not to write a masterpiece, but just to write something true.

She wrote:

Today, a jasmine bloom reminded me that growth can be slow,
and still be beautiful.

For the first time in weeks, her hand didn’t tremble. She continued writing small observations—the sound of her neighbor’s humming, the warmth of her tea, the way sunlight softened the edges of her fears.

Her words felt simple but sincere, like the first steps of someone learning to walk again.

Later that day, she took a walk to the local market. Children were laughing, old women bargaining cheerfully, a young man sketching portraits near a tea stall. Life was unfolding in dozens of tiny stories, each one a poem waiting to be noticed.

Mira paused beside a stall selling handmade notebooks. One had a sunrise painted on the cover. She held it in her hands, feeling an unexpected spark of joy.

She bought it—not because she needed more pages, but because she wanted to celebrate this small return to herself.

That evening, she sat by her window and wrote again, letting her thoughts flow gently, without judgment.

Poetry doesn’t disappear, she realized.
It simply waits for the heart to slow down enough to hear its voice again.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Mira closed her notebook, feeling steady and hopeful. She knew her creativity would rise and fall, just like the sun—but it would always come back, carrying light with it.

thank you.