When the Silence Becomes Light

A petal forgets to fall

and the sky,

for once,

does not rush.


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A tree does not speak,

but the shadows beneath it

tell stories in the language of waiting.


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You feel something loosen—

a knot behind your ribs,

a name you no longer need to carry.


---

Light does not arrive,

it becomes—

the hush on a windowsill,

the gold caught between eyelashes,

the forgiveness in a breeze

that does not ask for anything.


---

Time unbuttons itself.

The hours sit beside you

barefoot,

quiet.


---

You are not asked to be more—

not wiser,
not louder,
not new.

Only to breathe

as the cattails breathe

as the dust breathes

when no one is watching.


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And in that breath

a door,

unseen until now,

clicks open

in the center of you—

a soft room,

lit by nothing

but the truth

that you are already

enough.


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