is for the slow burn

                   of childhood

                                      to end,

for the long day

                   to bend

                                       toward emptiness,

What wind wants

                   is forgetting,

                                       to rend past from flesh—

was that us, there,

                   waving on the bridge in the snow,

or there, tending

                   to the dogs as they play in the field—

until this body

                   is no longer

                                       our home.

But remember—

                   everything depends

                                       on this one small thing—

we carry within

                   the seed of our own

                                       beginning,

and something new is written

                                       the moment we surrender

to sky.

                   This loop of being,

                                       this stillness between—

sometimes it blooms.