The Cartographer of Dust

In the attic of the year, I unroll a map of dust, where windows have pressed their light like seals and the air remembers each opened letter. Footsteps are faint coastline, unclaimed and glinting.

Outside, wind drags a river across the yard, bending the birch into a patient question. The fence keeps losing its alphabet of nails, and a sparrow stitches the gap with throat-song.

I mark the places we cannot return to, the porch swing, the kettle's blue pulse, a clay cup holding the afternoon's slow tea. Evening sets its compass in the grass.

When rain comes, it edits the ink, softens the borders of the past to a blur. I fold the map back into my chest; the dust settles, bright as a constellation.