A pink glow lingers, low and soft,
Brushing the tips of the tangled grass,
Each blade a quiet rebellion,
Leaning this way, reaching that.

It could be evening—
The air hums as if it remembers warmth.
The light, shy but unhurried,
Wraps itself around every stray stem.

No shadows stretch long,
No edges grow sharp.
Only the grasses, alive in their stillness,
Hold the weight of this fragile hour.

And you, standing there,
Could almost believe
The world has paused,
Just for this.