Slats of Gold

The morning asserts itself not with noise, but with geometry, laying bars of gold across the quiet room. Light slices through the blinds to measure the slow hours, striping the wall and the soft landscape of the bed in equal measure. Curled beneath the weight of the comforter, the sleeper remains in a world apart, perhaps dreaming of the patient shore where a surfboard leans in waiting. The day holds its breath, a silent promise just beyond the door. For now, there is only this certain slant of light, a temporary cage of warmth that holds the waking world at bay. The phone rests nearby, its dark screen a placid lake of messages yet to break the surface.