Margins of Morning Light

The sky rinses itself in early light,
a pale hush folding over tired roofs and trees.
Dust on my window begins to glow,
each grain a tiny sun I almost didn’t see.

Wind turns the neem leaves, page after page,
reading the morning aloud in a green, slow tongue.
Far off, a crow cracks open the silence,
drops its rough note into the still blue lung.

Clouds drift like thoughts I haven’t written yet,
soft, unfinished, gathering at the edge of mind.
The road is wet with yesterday’s brief storm,
footsteps print verses that the heat will soon unwind.

Somewhere a dog shakes rain from its coat,
diamonds scattering back to the thirsty ground.
The world smells of mud and second chances,
of small roots learning the courage of sound.

I stand in this quiet, breathing with the day,
heart keeping time with a passing train.
If life is a book the weather keeps revising,
today is a margin where hope writes my name again.