What the Wind Takes

The old gate swings on hinges that protest— rust and memory in the same voice. Seeds from the milkweed scatter, each one carrying its own small voyage.

I watch them rise and fall, some catching on the fence, on the oak's rough bark, others spinning out toward the neighbor's yard where they will become trees that don't belong to us.

This is how it happens— without intention, without ceremony. The things we hold begin their leaving and we call it natural. Necessary.

A letter blows from the porch. Unopened, unread, it tumbles toward the creek. There are words in that envelope that no one will ever need to know.

The wind doesn't discriminate. It takes the dandelion and the document with equal indifference. What matters is the motion, the release, the moment we stop clenching our fists.