There’s a field behind the school
where the grass grows in all directions,
and no compass can agree on which.
Kids say it’s haunted,
but it only remembers
every footprint we've ever made.
I walked there once with a question
tucked behind my tongue,
watched a crow land near a broken sprinkler
like it knew the answer I needed.
It didn’t speak,
but something about the way it stared
felt like a mirror I hadn’t yet broken.
Sometimes we call things “stars”
just because they’re far away.
But I’ve seen you name the birds and fireflies
as if they held real titles and gravity.
Maybe they do.
Maybe that’s why your shoulders still carry
the quiet weight of our constellations
trying to point us true north
in a world that keeps spinning
without our permission.