On a pleasantly sunny Friday afternoon, I offer up this hat tip to Mother Nature.
The sun, low and radiant,
spills through the window,
a patch of warmth on the kitchen floor.
It’s a quiet pleasure, this light,
like a hand on your shoulder
or the humming of a song
you can’t quite remember,
but still brings a smile.
Outside, the trees stand still,
their shadows stretching across the yard
as if they, too, feel the pull
of something gentle,
something slow and certain.
And I—
I stand in the glow,
letting it fill the room,
settle into my bones
the way an old hoodie feels,
worn but familiar.
There’s happiness in this,
not in the grand gestures
but in the quiet way
the sun touches everything—
a glass on the counter,
a cat asleep in the corner,
the dust flecks floating
like little prayers in the air.
It doesn’t ask for anything
yet, gives so much.
This is how we are formed,
not by the blinding moments
but by these gentle, steady hours
that slip by unnoticed
until, like today,
the light is there,
and you realize
you’ve been happy all along.