The light arrives like a whisper, half-formed,
soft on the backs of trees, silvered breath caught
between sky and skin. The night's broken warmth folds itself into birdcalls, unsought, taught to rise. A world unwrinkles in the glow,
edges smooth to gold. How many gods sleep
inside this morning, unmade? I don't know
how many nights I’ve held without knowing
to let them...