POEM: Field Note, Early Light

The morning does not announce itself.
It simply lengthens
along the edge of things—
until it launches,
slipping daylight everywhere.

Roots holding all around,
not asking
what will bloom
or when.

We check what bends,
what snaps,
what still carries green
beneath a dull cuticle surface—
not death,
alive but sleeping.

Not urgency.
Not proof.
Just the subtle, late-winter
response to light.

I am learning in measure—
to loosen,
to listen,
to grow where there is room.

No declarations today.
Only notes.
Only fragments.

Enough to say:
something here is still becoming.