A sunrise melts over the horizon like warm apricot jam...
golden, rich, and glistening with the first breath of light.
It spills over the land in slow, honeyed ribbons,
seeping into the earth, into the marrow of the morning.
The sky unfurls, blushing with sugared tangerine and rose,
soft as a held breath, deep as longing.

The air is thick with the scent of wild honey and ripe fruit,
heavy with something unnamed, something ancient.
A breeze, warm and feather-light, brushes against your skin,
carrying whispers of things lost and found,
of summers long buried beneath the turning of years.

Mist clings to the earth like a lover reluctant to let go,
curling in the hollows, swirling in the golden hush.
The tender spill of dawn drapes itself over the fields,
weaving light into the trembling hands of wildflowers,
each petal cupped around a glistening prayer of dew.

The river sighs, its voice low and endless,
a slow hymn to time itself.
Birdsong quivers in the air,
sharp and bright as the memory of laughter once held close.
Everything shivers on the edge of becoming...
the earth, the sky, even you, standing there,
barefoot in the quiet ache of morning.

For a moment, you are nothing but breath and bone,
woven into the hush of something vast and infinite.
The day stirs, stretching toward the waiting world,
but you remain...caught in the fragile eternity
of the first light, of the golden hush,
of a morning too beautiful to name.