The Periphery Blooms

In the corner of your vision, where attention hasn't yet arrived, a moth settles on the window screen— wings folded like a prayer you forgot to finish.

You don't turn to look directly; the moment you do, it scatters. Some truths only exist in the spaces where you're not quite watching.

The light shifts. A leaf turns gold at the edge of your peripheral dream. You've known it was dying for weeks, but only now do you see how beautiful the ending looks.

This is what the poets never tell you— the best things bloom where you're not supposed to see them, in the soft dark just beyond your gaze.