As time dilates and the tempo
of my little bird heart slows,

I recover pieces of self,
cast like felt petals on the way,

doubling back with a bug-catcher's
glass, counting the legs of my days

outgrown. I capture my child-like
wonder on a twig. I spy curiosity

on a leaf, speckled with holes
bored by time that rushes

like a stream with no regard
for the riverbed it erodes.

I step into myself like old clothes
and remember what it feels like

to be – existing for the sake
of existing. Where life is treasure

enough.