You arrived on sticks,
tied tight,
a gift wrapped in roots and hope.
For a while, you hesitated,
unsure of the walls,
the dry hum of city air,
the way light slanted in unfamiliar ways.
But then—
you exhaled.
Stretched.
Unraveled your green arms into the open,
spilled yourself like ink across the porch rail,
climbed the air as if it had always belonged to you.
Now, the wind is thick with your breath,
a perfume so soft it bends the dusk,
lingers in doorways like an old song.
At night, you fill rooms with something like memory,
something like longing,
something like home.
