When the Sky Forgot Its Edges

I began where the soil still clung to last night’s rain,

barefoot and curious—

the moss didn’t mind,

nor did the half-sunken stones or the curl of fern

breathing slowly beside them.

A crow watched me like I was late to something,

something old.

He tilted his head,

offered no answer,

just the rustle of wings against silence.

Even the wind walked sideways,

folding around me

like I might dissolve if pressed too hard—

and maybe I would’ve,

if not for the scent of pine-sharp air

pulling me back to the ache of being.

Then—

out of nowhere,

a flicker across the brook:

light bending without apology,

reflected from nothing I could touch

but everything I could feel.

The world tilted, slightly,

and I swore I heard it breathe.

I stood there longer than I meant to—

or maybe time bowed out

so the moment could have its say.

We don’t always need to understand.

Sometimes,

it’s enough

just to be a soft shape in a wide place

where no one’s waiting for you

to be anything

but still.