1 of 8 — The Beginning
In the early spring of a life just waking,
when everything feels like a question still forming,
I stand at the edge of myself—
young in spirit, unfinished in shape.
Morning has just broken,
soft light stretching across uncertain ground,
dew clinging to the fragile edges of becoming.
The world smells new, and so do I.
The air is cool, not cold—
a gentle promise rather than a warning.
Clouds drift like thoughts not yet decided,
and the wind carries possibility more than direction.
My mind is open—
wide as the horizon before names are given,
before fear learns its vocabulary.
My heart is open too,
unguarded, unmeasured,
willing to believe in things
simply because they could be.
And my hands—
they are open most of all,
not yet holding,
not yet clinging,
ready to receive whatever this season dares to offer.
I do not know where I am going.
But in this hour,
in this weather of becoming,
that feels like the truest beginning.
