Between Bruises and Blooms

By noon,

the world has forgotten

how quiet it was before dawn.

Coffee cups sit empty.

Tiny socks have found the laundry basket.

The dishes have become

a mountain again.

Somewhere,

a child is laughing.

A dog is stretched across the floor,

dreaming of fields

it has never seen.

The sun spills through the window

without asking

who had a hard night,

who is still healing,

who is carrying yesterday

like a stone in their pocket.

It shines anyway.

Maybe that is the lesson.

Not that every bruise disappears.

Not that every bloom arrives on time.

Only that light

keeps showing up,

even for gardens

that still think

they are broken.

And somehow—

by the middle of the day—

I remember

that I am growing,

even when

I cannot feel it.