morning
skylight morning
Outside the skylight, morning breathes—
not a riddle, not a veil,
but a hand stretched open,
steady as the oak that keeps its watch.
The sky is not abyss but garment,
woven blue, a shawl of ease;
its quiet folds smooth out the creases
that the day had pressed upon my brow.
The trees do not whisper secrets,
they speak plainly:
we are here, we endure,
and in our rootedness, you may rest.
No sphinx, no silence heavy with dread—
only the brush of night’s last sigh,
and the promise that even in darkness
companionship is near,
and light will always return.
Morning Magic
I love the hush of early mornings,
when the air itself feels unfinished,
like a canvas washed with pale strokes of silver
before the painter dares add colour.
The houses are closed mouths,
the streets unrolled ribbons of silence,
and I walk within it all as if dreaming,
as if the world is a ghost that has paused its breathing
to let me listen to the deeper hum of being.
There is a holiness in these hours,
a sense that the clock has loosened its grip,
that time itself is fragile,
cradled like dew on a blade of grass.
Problems dissolve like shadows before dawn;
the old worries that haunted my sleep
are softened, untied, and left at the threshold.
Here, it is only me, the earth still warm in its slumber,
and the horizon where night surrenders to fire.
The sun’s first fingers reach tenderly,
stroking the edges of the world awake.
The birds, in their hidden chapels of leaves,
tune their voices for a hymn not yet sung.
And I, a single witness, stand astonished,
as though invited to a secret unveiling,
a ceremony meant for no audience at all.
To be the only one awake
is to touch eternity with bare hands,
to know the world not as crowded and restless
but vast, tender, and impossibly alive.
And in that moment,
before the engines stir and the doors slam open,
and the tide of humanity reclaims its noise,
I forget myself, and the weight I carry,
and I belong only to the hush,
the rising light,
and the miracle of another day being born.