Spoken Into

Before I knew a word,

something was already speaking.

Not in syllables,

not in sound—

but in pattern,

in number,

in the quiet insistence

that this world could be known.

Light fell in ways I could follow.

Order waited to be noticed.

Meaning pressed in

before I had a name for it.

And when I began to think,

I did not invent understanding—

I recognized it.

As if my mind

had been shaped

to meet what was already there.

As if the questions in me

were answers in disguise.

The stars did not argue.

They resolved.

The equations did not persuade.

They fit.

The world did not shout.

It corresponded.

And somewhere in that meeting—

between what is

and what can be known—

a quiet realization formed:

This is not noise.

This is not accident.

This is address.

And I—

before I ever spoke—

was already being spoken to.