In the morning, when the sun breaks
through the light,
the earth remembers itself again.
Shadows peel back from the edges of houses,
and windows breathe in warmth
like lungs learning to trust the air.

The trees do not speak,
but they stretch
as if waking
from a dream of wind and weight.

I sit by the window,
hands wrapped around a cup
that no longer steams,
watching the slow resurrection of color
from the gray of sleep.

Nothing asks for permission to begin.
The light simply arrives,
not bold,not loud-
just there.

And in that soft arrival,
something in me leans forward,
listens,
and begins again.