Does love come first, or does morning? Sunlight enters before permission is given. Roses arrive without announcement; sorrow fades without being named. The poem “Love—an Unsolicited Light” counts warmth, measures light with bare feet, and questions love not as an abstraction but as a lived, fragile presence. The poem discovers a way of resisting sorrow.
The morning is an unsolicited gift, but love is the act of unwrapping it. Lingering in the generosity of the sun and the brief mercy of waking, the poem expresses a profound experience of being alive—offering a hug to the vastness of the universe and finding, in each seemingly ordinary morning, love speaking into being.
Love—an Unsolicited Light
by Xinman Cathy
On mornings like this
I oversleep.
The night is full of temptation,
always leaving me alert.
As morning approaches,
I am drawn into summer.
Morning completes itself.
I did not open the window—
it had already come in,
an orange-gold blooming.
I stretch out my small feet,
hurry, my warm little feet,
how joyful—stay with today.
Sun, your rare generosity.
I count the roses you send:
six in all,
and one falling into my arms.
I use it to escape sorrow.
I am reluctant to let the sun move
away from the window.
I have ten toes—
Sun, how many do you have?
The warmth you deliver,
stepped onto wooden boards,
fills me with delight.
Summer is so rude,
leaving without warning.
I forgive you—
you fear harming my eyes.
My transparent glass window,
just like my eyes.
You will surely return.
I will sleep a little longer.
Ah—pray, join in.
Birds, you too, fly in.
On mornings like this,
before my indulgent sleep,
let the sunlight know I am awake,
let it not stop bringing roses—
golden roses.
Their murmuring
is the movement of their lips.
Let yesterday fall behind.
Today—guess:
what is gathering together?
This may be a profound morning,
in our fully formed time.
Let me, for the sun,
light up my eyes,
watch the child running on the shore—
golden sunlight,
countless.
Love is believed to be the sweetest.
Who received the roses today,
received their smile,
their embrace.
I can define a hug—
how narrow it is,
only between you and me,
unsuited for praising the universe,
for praising great love.
As expected, it turns toward solemn themes.
Let me pull a rose from my heart.
I wish the clouds upon it
would grow luminous roses,
like prosperous sunlight,
countless.
On mornings like this
I do not speak,
yet my heart is glowing.
You appear in this way,
a form of rescue,
making me believe
you still walk among us.
I am only a mortal,
yet I can see higher, farther.
Do not overlook our window,
nor the orange blooms
that have already entered.
Orange roses
standing on one side of the window
and the other.
Why should I care so much
about such a small flower?
It passes again through my glass window.
It builds there,
so miraculous.
Great sorrow is fading.
Can you explain the sun to me?
An ordinary morning,
except for birds singing—
newly arrived you,
punctual me,
countless light.
Cathy Xinman writes poetry in English and Chinese. Find her English-language collection, Where You Love Yourself, on Amazon. You can also hear her poetry on her TikTok page. The Toronto Spark is on Bluesky @torontospark.bsky.social.
