There are twenty minutes every morning before the day starts asking things of you.
In those minutes, the sky turns a color that is not quite gold and not quite peach. The color that lives in the gap between night finishing and day starting. The version of the day before any of it has been negotiated.
She painted the sky first. Then the flowers. Red and orange and white and cornflower blue. Teal right at the roots where the dark still lives.
The flowers are not reaching for anything.
They are simply there. Alive before the day made any demands.
This is what the soul speaks before the world remembers it has demands. This is what you sound like before anyone has told you what they need from you. The painting is six inches by nine. Substantial enough to hold the wall. Quiet enough to hold the morning.
First Light.
There are twenty minutes every morning before the day starts asking things of you.
In those minutes, the sky turns a color that is not quite gold and not quite peach. The color that lives in the gap between night finishing and day starting. The version of the day before any of it has been negotiated.
She painted the sky first. Then the flowers. Red and orange and white and cornflower blue. Teal right at the roots where the dark still lives.
The flowers are not reaching for anything.
They are simply there. Alive before the day made any demands.
This is what the soul speaks before the world remembers it has demands. This is what you sound like before anyone has told you what they need from you. The painting is six inches by nine. Substantial enough to hold the wall. Quiet enough to hold the morning.
First Light.
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