Dawn of Life
Light spills like innocence across the sleeping fields,
a hush of gold where every blade remembers rain.
I breathe the first unopened sky,
feel the slow drum of the planet turning in my wrists.
No name yet for the color crying at the edge of east—
only the pulse that says begin.
Birds sew invisible threads between shadow and flame,
and I walk barefoot into the unwritten minute,
carrying nothing but the promise
that every broken star once waited like this
to be called home by morning.