There is a quiet unfolding,

a soft expansion that cannot be hurried.

It moves like light through the branches,

gentle, persistent, inevitable.

Words gather like rivers finding their course,

carrying the weight of the year

not to erase it,

but to reshape it.

The edge of the year holds its breath—a stillness where everything and nothing exists.

We step forward, not to arrive,but to remember.

There is a hum beneath the surface, a pulse,
vibrating from the edges of perception,
where the known brushes up against the unknown.
In these spaces, the sky begins to breathe

There’s a moment when the sun spills across the horizon, when shadow and light dance not in opposition, but as partners in an endless improvisation. It is there—on that edge, that cusp—where we are all born anew.