I do not want the key back
to the room I locked.
The dust can settle there in patterns
I no longer trace.
Let the garden I did not plant
grow wild without my watching,
let the path I swept
accept the scatter of new leaves.
My ship is not tied to that dock,
its shape is gone from the horizon's line.
The tide I catch now fills a different sail,
pulls me toward a deeper, wider blue.
I have pressed my palms into this new earth,
felt its warmth, its willing yield.
Where I am now has asked for roots,
and I have given them.
The view from here is enough.
The sun arrives at a kinder angle.
I do not miss the old shadows,
or the furniture of my former weather.
I am fine where I am.
The compass in my chest has stilled,
its needle pointing down,
simply saying: here.