Silent morning

There are mornings when the light is not yet the day. When the world breathes very softly, without hurry. A tender green of dawn, misty, carrying within it the memory of the night and the promise of the sun.

At the horizon, a fine line of gold separates the still-sleeping sky from a land already alive. It is a discreet frontier, almost a murmur, but it changes everything. It signals that something is beginning.

Below, the meadow awakens. Greens and turquoises answer each other, run through with reds and purples, like poppies that have not yet decided whether to open or to sleep. The matter is velvety, almost breathing, sculpted with chalk and marble powder.

Nothing rushes. Everything waits for the light.

Matter, acrylic, chalk, marble powder. Wabi-sabi. The silence of the morning is not empty. It is full of what is about to be born.