In the early morning hush,
when the sky is still stretching awake,
a tiny rosy squeeze of light
slips between the clouds—
gentle, shy, curious.

It touches the petals of a flower
as if asking permission to glow.
The flower blushes,
opening slowly,
letting the colour spread
like a soft secret shared
between dawn and dream.

That rosy squeeze
drips onto the grass,
turning dew into diamonds,
turning silence into song,
turning an ordinary moment
into a tiny miracle.

Children notice it first—
because their eyes
still believe in magic.
They point at the sky,
whispering,
“Look! The morning is smiling!”

Birds flutter through it,
their wings catching the pink light
as if wearing borrowed wonder.
Even the wind moves gently,
afraid to disturb
something so delicate.

It is the kind of beauty
that doesn’t shout,
doesn’t push,
doesn’t demand to be seen.
It simply arrives,
soft and warm,
like a rosy hand
squeezing the world
with gentle amazement.

And for a moment,
we all pause—
breathing in the colour,
feeling the peace,
remembering that wonder
is not something we chase,
but something we notice
when we slow down enough
to let it touch us.

A rosy squeeze in wonder—
a reminder
that even the smallest glow
can brighten a whole day.