Ciclo CXVII

The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust in the air became visible — each mote carrying its own small life, turning, rising, falling, as though the sun had given them bodies for an hour. I have seen this a thousand times, and yet today I stopped. Perché oggi? The Maker shows Himself in what repeats, not in what is new. The candle last night burned steady. The hand is quieter. I will draw the dust before it settles.