What Remains When Light Leaves

The thief left it behind: the moon at my window.

The thief is time. The moon is what we notice when we stop reaching for it. Ryokan suggests that loss itself can be a gift, that absence clarifies what was there all along. This morning, ask what your hurry has left behind. Not metaphorically. What small thing did you overlook yesterday because you were already moving toward tomorrow? The moon doesn't announce itself. It simply rests in the frame, patient, available to those whose hands have stopped.