Something therein lives... to be opened by degree, counting by heart the growth of Light. Opened by degree... let that openness thereby referred to, be that of Love.
The sun smiles childlike... its light is full and fickle-- a burning blindness at one with what must be done. The places to call home, and the beings that abide there...all made up of something like the sun. Whose spirit hides in plain sight.
Narrower than anticipation... and wider than its happened hour, otherness for day... trailed by specificity. Where the path may be the breakage of the heart, and the step that mends it.