Sunshine

Sunshine spills across the waking earth,
not like a flood,
but like fingers brushing lace-curtained windows.

It arrives without apology,
golden and slow,
stretching over rooftops
and the backs of sleeping birds.

It catches in the hair of children,
turns sidewalks into molten ribbons,
drips like honey off the edge of morning.

It has no language,
but everything listens.

The flowers tilt their faces,
cups raised like believers,
and even the shadows lean in,
aching to remember warmth.

Sunshine smells like grass and second chances,
like dust rising from the bones of yesterday.

It hums against your skin,
whispers through leaves,
pauses on shoulders
like a friend too long missed.

It doesn’t ask who you are—
only that you open your eyes.

Some days it burns.
Some days it heals.
Always, it reveals.

It slips through cracks in sorrow,
washes windows of worry,
and scatters gold in forgotten corners.

You do not own it—
but it touches you anyway.

Sunshine:
a daily miracle
that never needed applause.