Some cried the sky was falling
when the page turned its face,
as if a shift in the furniture
could unmake the house.
But I,
I paused,
let the dust settle in its sunbeam,
let my pulse slow to listening.
And there it was:
every old doorway still standing,
every familiar stair still leading
to the rooms where poems breathe.
Then a new glimmer,
a hinge I hadn’t seen before,
opening not to another tab
but to a moving world,
a clip of light and sound
threaded through the quiet page.
Change is a tide.
Some brace against it,
some wade in with wary toes,
and some (like me)
feel the pull of the current
and whisper
there might be treasure in this.
So let the layout shift.
Let the chorus grumble.
Let the poets wander the new halls
with lanterns of curiosity.
A poem is still a poem,
and now it can sing
with a voice beyond text,
a window that opens outward
into motion,
into music,
into the next brave thing.