And Your Right’s in Grip
Category Archives: The Liminal Times
Bowed by Wind
I wasn’t looking
but the wind pressed its palm
into the spine of the tree,
and it bent—not broke—
and that was its sermon.
Some days
I wonder if I’m bark
or the veins beneath it.
Either way,
I’ve stopped
counting rings.
Spin
We wake in the half-light,
deciding over coffee
whether to love,
whether to leave.
The sky doesn’t commit—
neither rain
nor shine,
just a smear of maybe.
But beneath our questions,
beneath our hearts stammering
over right and wrong,
an electron twirls.
Not maybe.
Not sometimes.
It chooses—
or is chosen.
Up.
Down.
No argument.
Perhaps
the world is gray
because we’re made of absolutes
too fine to see.
