Your Radiant Light Has Come

A girl stands beneath an umbrella.
Not sheltering from the storm —
sheltered by a hand greater than the storm.

From behind, a circle of gold glows quietly.
Ancient. Holy. Hers.
She does not climb.
She is lifted —
a hand beneath her, steady and sure,
raising her into the light she was made for.

Arise, shine.
The darkness behind her cannot follow
where she is being carried.

The gold is not decoration.
It is declaration —
that her light has come,
and the glory upon her
is not her own.