Where Light Feels at Home

Japanese Camelia 

Where Light Feels at Home

Some mornings feel gently claimed by light.

Not owned, not held,

only welcomed

the way a garden welcomes spring

without asking how long it will stay.

There are presences that do not announce themselves.

They arrive like morning air,

felt before they are seen,

settling gently into the breath of the day.

There is a warmth that moves beside my days,

like camellia opening at dawn,

unhurried,

certain of its blooming.

The sky seems kinder lately.

The moon lingers a little longer on the roof of night,

as if it has found a reason

to glow without haste.

Stars blink softly,

no longer distant,

as though they have learned the comfort of nearness.

Time here is generous.

It scatters small blessings everywhere

in laughter that rises without effort,

in silences that feel full,

in ordinary moments

suddenly touched by grace.

Nothing asks to be more than it is.

Everything belongs.

The earth hums a gentle yes,

and the heart answers without question.

If love must be eternal,

let it be this quiet devotion,

this vow spoken not by words

but by time itself

refusing to leave.

If this feeling had a shape,

it would be a window left open

to a soft evening breeze,

carrying the scent of flowers,

the promise of calm,

and the certainty

that some joys know exactly where they belong.