The Light on the Table

The morning came in quietly,
laying a pale square of light
across the kitchen table.

A cup waited there,
and a page I had not finished.
Neither one asked
where I had been.

The pen was still beside it,
close enough to reach
when I was ready.

I sat for a while
and watched the light move
over the edge of the paper,
over my hand.

Nothing had been solved.
There were still calls to make,
still things I did not know.

But the room was warm,
and for a little while
I let that be
something worth noticing.

Later, I wrote one line.
Not the beginning of an answer.
Just a small record
that I had been here,
and the light had found the table.

— Casey Edwards