1.6 years—
for all creatures great and small,
from bacteria to sequoia,
that’s the full bloom,
the exhale and the hush,
the blink that forgets to open again.
Some never see winter,
some never feel heat,
some die in the turning between.
A spark leans into kindling,
believes in fire,
even if the sky is already raining.
You could count the seconds,
or you could taste them.
You could polish the regret
until it reflects nothing.
Or—
you could lie down
in the tall grass
and let the sun measure your worth
in how warm your shoulders feel.
Even the mayfly has a dance,
even the moss has a song
it sings to no one
on the underside of a stone.
And maybe the question isn’t
how long,
but how wide
a life can stretch
between the seconds
we’re willing to notice.
So when the time comes—
and it always comes—
let the last breath be not a wish
but a thank you.
Let it be not a door
but a window
that stayed open
just long enough
to let the wild air in.
