The Weight of Thresholds

A thimble of light holds the afternoon, the way your hand finds the table's edge before the word arrives to name it.

Between the breath and the song, a kingdom of dust motes ascends, each one a mirror of what was forgotten. We are always arriving at the place we left years ago, our shadows still warm on the chair.

The clock's tick is a door opening onto another door. Time is just water learning to remember itself— the river speaks to the rain, the rain returns to the river, and we are both, forever thirsty.