# Yet To Come The day hasn't dawned yet— the one where light will pour like honey through the window, where birds will sing their ancient, unrehearsed songs. I wait in this half-darkness, this threshold between sleep and waking, for the moment when everything will make sense— or stop making sense altogether, which amounts to the same thing. The words I haven't spoken yet pile up like snow in my chest. The roads I haven't traveled stretch out in all directions, each one leading somewhere I've already been. There is a voice calling from tomorrow, but I cannot quite hear it. Perhaps it's my own voice, grown old, trying to warn me. Or perhaps it's simply the wind remembering what it once was. I am still becoming, still unfinished, like a sentence that trails away into silence— and silence, I've learned, can be a kind of ending or the only true beginning.