First Light Returns

The dawn does not rush—

it creeps softly,

a timid brush of color

across the edge of night.

It stirs the sleeping world—

the brittle grass,

the tired sky,

the heart long held still.

In the soft unfolding,

there is no urgency,

only a quiet invitation—

to rise, to breathe, to begin.

The frost melts slowly,

trickling down like whispered promises

once forgotten, now remembered.

Each new ray,

a thread of hope woven

into the fabric of a tender morning.

And in this gentle glow,

the soul stretches awake—

not with the clash of storms,

but with the grace of slow awakening.

Here, beneath the burgeoning light,

the dream of life returns—

fragile, fragile,

yet fiercely alive.