At The Brink Of Morning Grace
The hush before the dawn is thin and gold,
A breath held tight beneath the sky’s soft yawn.
Somewhere, a blackbird sings to break the cold,
And I, for once, do not feel quite as gone.
The frost still clings to windows, faint and shy,
But light moves gently through the trees again—
It spills across the room without a cry,
Like something sacred reaching through the pain.
The ghost of you still stirs in shadowed rooms,
A whisper caught between the floor and wall.
But something else is rising with the blooms:
A silence not so heavy when it falls.
I’m not yet whole—just stitched by morning’s thread,
But dreams no longer echo only you.
The fire is small, but it is not dead,
And hope comes dressed in paler shades of blue.
Note: This is a sequel to "Happiness Is Still Out There" by a dear poetic friend.
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