I woke to the clatter
between wind and word,
the light not rising
but blooming—
soft as breath caught
on the edge of deciding.
A crow passes overhead
without shadow.
A stone turnes itself over
in the stream
and begins again.
Time is not a clock,
but a fern,
unfurling its memory
with no urgency,
no apology.
I am decades lived,
six so far—
and still the grass kneels
under my step,
still the world
tries to tell me something
in the flick of a yes,
in the flash before thunder.
A spider repairs her web
between the ribs of a gate.
The air tastes of iron
and oranges.
It is more than enough
to have arrived,
to still
be arriving.
