White Lace Cascades

White lace cascades, string beads of light fall from a quiet sky. There’s a soulful eye-gaze— not quite seen, but deeply felt— as if the night itself is watching, studying the stars, navigating galaxies of hope with nothing but longing for a compass. Turned out. Opened up. Like a Christmas present— torn, but radiant. Laughter and freckles etched into knowing. The past, just a sigh in the wind. The future—not yet arrived. It is now. And that is enough. Limited time makes joy ache in a bittersweet way. So it is only right to submerge fully into this sacred world of breath and birdsong. They say there are a hundred billion planets just in our galaxy— and two trillion galaxies still spinning in the dark. A septillion worlds, each cold, each silent, each waiting. But only this one wept at sunrise, wrote sonnets, whispered I love you in kitchens, birthed children, broke hearts, and kept going. We— star-born with nerve endings, carbon dreaming in the dark— are the only known thing that has ever looked up and asked: Why? With war, and planes torn from the sky, we forget the simple, gentle fact that it is a miracle we are here at all.