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.
.