The problem with incurables is the specificities— Just this diet, Just this needle, Just this measure on gauge. Forget not the unburdened youth of health; it sings at any age, at any moment — heard or unheard, of the beauty of approximations.
Three Months February holds its breath like an ancient truth in the mind’s quiet corner while poppies open their wild orange mouths to sing what’s always been. March moves like memory— everything certain, everything known, hawks drawing circles in the warming air tracing the paths they’ve always followed. April arrives steady as morning fog, constant as the pause between heartbeats. The finches know something about persistence, how each beat keep cadence that’s always held them. Time flows like water over river stones that have six decades been here. The wildflowers don’t question their returning seasons. They simply continue being who they’ve always been.
When Sky Opens What is it to stand beneath the gray and dream of something heavier— a weight not of burden but of blessing, soft, unrelenting, falling? The ash, gray as uncertainty, speaks a language without syllables, settling on leaves, on roads, on the curve of a bird’s wing as if daring us to forget what once was green. But still, I lift my face to sky, knowing rain will come. Not as promise— it has never promised— but as answer to a question we didn’t know we were asking. And when it comes, it will wash the silence from the branches, the grief from the soil, the weight from our shoulders. And in that moment, even the gray will seem beautiful— for it held the space until the rain could arrive.
