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She stood where the light returns slowly.  The balusters caught it first, then the far edge of the lintel, and finally her face.  Not all at once—like dawn, she arrived by degrees.  Her lotus hand poised just below the heart.  Her gaze lowered.  Not offering.  Not withholding.  Simply present.

The shutter opened.  I did not breathe.  It closed again.

What I brought home was not her.  It was the silence she kept.

 

light brushes her gaze
as if the stone remembers
how to welcome dawn


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