Crossing
There's no light yet,
but a faint shift in the grey,
as if the sky
is remembering how to open.
Despair bows to light—
it too longs to be held.
And when dawn returns,
as it always has,
the mist clears:
I was never alone.
Just barely—
like a breath not yet taken—
I sense the shimmer stir again.
Not as glory
or revelation,
but as a whisper:
I crossed.
Light—
without trumpets.
The weight lifts,
my chest loosens.
Space.
The threshold.
Return.
Rest.
This is the passage back from the underworld.