The Delicate Light of Morning

The morning light feels different.
Fragile. Delicate.
The weight of expectation
and the width of possibility.
The slightest shift and it may change.
It is the beginning of the light
when all is still dark
and its story is not yet told.
We bring to it all that we carry,
all that we are,
all that has come before.
And it brings to us what is,
what is to come,
and what may yet be.
It is a light to hold gently.
And a light that holds us the same.

(I write a lot about grief. Mostly so I can try to understand it, live with it, grow with it. Lately I have been thinking about the differences and similarities between grief and mourning.

I am endlessly fascinated with words. How one letter can entirely change the meaning of a word yet still sound the same.

I will often hear and feel a poem before and as I am writing it and sometimes I can capture the smallest piece of that on the page. Or at least I can try.

This poem was written to go with a new ambient piece available soon on my bandcamp page.)