Ciclo LXI

The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust became visible — not as nuisance, but as polvere d’oro, each mote carrying its own small history of where it has been. I watched one particle descend so slowly it seemed to hesitate, as if choosing where to rest. The hand trembles, yes, but the eye still follows what it loves. I think the Maker gives us these small, unhurried things — a falling speck, a breath, the silence between two thoughts — so that we might learn to attend. The canal outside is still. The candle gutters. I write.