a wind through larger winds.
Nothing stays mine:
the scent of oranges,
the hush of dusk,
the stray dog nosing a wrapper.
But everything touches me for a second
and goes on.
I once thought I was the keeper,
hands cupped around what mattered.
Now I know I am the passing-through,
the brief warmth on a windowpane.
I give nothing back but this stirring,
this leaning toward.
The world holds.
