Archive of Warmth

I shelve the day in a pantry of light, where jars of summer hum behind glass. Each lid remembers the wrist that turned it, small galaxies sealed against frost.

A kettle begins its minor thunder, steam lifting like a curtain in slow tide. The kitchen window holds a square of sky, blue as a new bruise, tender and clean.

Outside, the field is a quiet radio, static of grass and the thin antennae of weeds. The wind moves through them, an unseen hand combing the fur of the earth.

Night comes with its careful inventory: the spoon’s oval moon, the hallway’s long lake. I stand in the doorway, listening for the soft click of tomorrow settling.