I sit back,
a shadow at the table,
gathering the stillness
as if it were mine—

Moonlight folded,  
a mouth purses shut.  
    Ears rise,  
                corn listens.  
The scarecrow whispers—  
dreams scatter like chaff.

tulip blaze of red—
his hand still in the petals,
train whistle fading

Some days I carry stones,
some days sunlight.
Both belong to me,
and both keep me walking.

Loss presses down,
memory lifts up.
I live in the middle,
held by both.

I ache for what is gone,
I glow with what remains.
Between the two, I stay.
Still here.

One hand holds sorrow,
the other holds joy.
Together they steady me,
and I go on.

“What I Carry”

Some days the loss is heavy,
like stones in my chest.
Other days it’s light,
like sunlight through leaves.
Both are true. Both stay with me.
And somehow, so do I.

“Unspoken Units”

You measured me
in teaspoons of time—
a stir, a pause,
a dissolve.

I answered in grams of silence,
packed tight
like sugar in a spoon,
but never sweet.

We never spilled, but the table held
our residue.

I fold the silence into paper,
address it to your absence,
and let the ink wander
where my voice could not.

Every word is a bridge half‑
built across distance,
collapsing into the river
before you ever arrive.





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