Each morning, from my kitchen window, I watch the sun make its way through the trees. The light gently touches the leaves, encounters each trunk, and casts soft shadows on the white wall of my apartment. In Cuernavaca, the sun rises almost horizontally, as if bowing in greeting. In silence, I welcome it.

There is something in this exchange, a silent knowing, a presence beyond words.

The other night, I felt a deep pain. Imagining a dance, I encountered it, let it exist without avoiding it. Because even in that moment, I thought of the sun: how it would rise the next day, how it would kiss the trees again, and how the birds would sing with joy.

And when the night ceased, there was the sun, more radiant than ever. It was then that I began to understand.

I look at the forest and think I see life, but in truth, I see both. The dead half of the forest nourishes the living half. There is no clear boundary between what fades and what remains. It is all part of the same whole.

Sunlight passes through everything, carrying something invisible yet deeply felt. Isn’t that what all living beings do, gently hold the darkness, and embrace a new day?

Please keep reading on my blog, POETRY & THE WOODS , where I reflect on art, poetry, nature, and the creative wild.