by Liam

Creation never stopped on the sixth day—

it moves still, beneath the radiant glow of mornings,

in the dark pull of tides and the leaning of trees toward light.

It breathes through us, between our words or letters,

in the spaces we think are empty,

yet are full with the pulse of the unseen.

We call it love,

though it is older than the name we give it—

a force that knows no stopping,

rising in us like a river breaking its own banks,

flooding us with the ache of becoming.

It walks beside us,

in the ordinary moments we miss—

in the turn of a leaf, the warmth of skin,

the sudden silence when the heart remembers

it has always belonged

to something infinite,

something that has never once paused even, 

After the sixth day.

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