There are mornings when the light spills like warm honey on the kitchen floor,
and a sparrow bathes in a puddle as if the world has never broken once.
You laugh, and somewhere inside you, a dam gives way without warning.
How cruel that joy should arrive so heavy it becomes a boulder in your throat.
That a loaf of fresh bread, a friend’s voice, the scent of rain on dust
can remind the heart it was built far too small for such ordinary miracles.
