When the Light Lands (Poem)

When the Light Lands

There is a moment

before the wind knows it's coming—

when leaves, breathless,

hold their green like a promise.

The lake is flat as forgetting.

Nothing moves, not even memory.

And then—

a hush,

wide as summer,

slides down the spine of the day.

You don’t see the light arrive.

You feel it.

A warmth that leans in,

not to touch, but to remind.

On the surface,

a shimmer,

small as the sigh

you didn’t know you were holding.

The heron blinks,

and the water shifts—

not broken,

but awakened.

Everything waits:

the branch,

the breath,

the buried thing inside you

that wants to surface

but fears it has no name.

And still,

the light stays.

Not loud.

Not asking.

Just there,

gold and certain,

like the truth

you almost let go.