the architecture of light
There is a way morning arrives.
Daybreak enters through narrow openings,
streaking burnt copper with gold.
Light scatters, bends.
A white crane crosses the sky.
The rose opens.
Webs gather dew.
The wind remembers how to move.
I had forgotten
how beauty happens
without asking.
It makes no demands.
It simply enters.
Healing, too,
has no grand entrance,
but is the humble work
of letting the world back in.