Morning Light

There is a kind of light that does not announce itself— a hush before gold, a breath held by the sky.

You wake, and it is there. Not in triumph, but in mercy. Across the floorboards, across your cheek— light as the hand of a god who no longer speaks aloud.

II. You do not know how many mornings remain. No one does. The count is hidden, sealed behind the stars and the breath of your own forgetting.

But one day, perhaps without ache, without omen— you will wake, and it will be your last light.

And you will not know it.

III. What then is greatness? What throne endures? What praise echoes through the dust that gathers on your unopened letters?

You chased names. You bent time into symbols. You cried for more when the miracle was already pouring gold through your window.

You were alive— you are. And that is a sorrowful joy, or a joyful sorrow. It must be both.

IV. There is no wisdom in denying the end. Nor in fearing it. But there is something, perhaps divine, in bowing to the day with open eyes, and letting the light fall through you as though you were glass and willing.

V. One day, your last morning will come. You will not know its name. You will brush your teeth, check the weather, tie your laces.

And that, that ordinary grace, will be enough.

The sun will rise not for you— but with you.