Sunday Signage
Monthly Archives: November 2025
The Singular
Time arrives in spring
on molasses legs,
sticky and resistant and new.
So we blur and burn it:
I am six and a half.
I am a pre-teen.
By summer we know suns set.
But they brown our skin just so.
Best not to speak in front of the kids.
Autumn takes the stairs on matchstick legs.
Some thin, some thick as trunks.
All on the singular.
Winter knows repose.
That blur is just beauty,
carved of the same tree.
Handprints
we learn to keep climbing
even when the ledge
doesn’t promise shit.
a good reach,
a little strength,
that’s all the world asks
and maybe
a small kindness
on the way up.
because the climb
doesn’t end at the step,
it ends when you stop
believing there’s one more.
so you believe,
not because you’re holy
or brave,
but because someone once
pulled you up,
and their handprint
never left your skin.
