A Thread of Morning

I pushed past the heavy velvet curtains onto the sunlit pine sill. A stray glass prism hung askew from a suction cup on the upper pane, held only by a fraying length of dark cotton thread. The morning draft through the cracked frame had set it swaying erratically, casting wild, broken flashes of light across the quiet floorboards. Bracing my boots against an upright ceramic succulent planter, I reached up with both hands. I guided the swinging crystal into the steady notch of the wooden latch, anchoring its brass ring securely. The scattered colors locked instantly into a single, stationary band of violet and gold across the wood. Stillness, held firm.