April Light

April light is thin and specific — it knows which window to come through and when.

Not the broad confident light of summer that asks nothing of you, only arrives.

April light is tentative. It offers itself like a question, like a hand extended to someone who has been indoors a long time.

I have been indoors a long time.

But today it came through the particular window at the particular angle and sat on the floor like a small, persistent grace —

not asking me to be ready, not requiring me to be grateful, just arriving the way goodness arrives when we least expect it and have stopped looking:

quietly, laterally, with a warmth that asks only to be noticed.