Somewhere between the wave’s rise  
and its folding back into itself,   
I felt the salt change weight in my hands.

The water no longer blurred the edges —  threads began to show through the foam, knots glinting like shells in the shallows.

I was still wet with the reading,  
but already leaning toward the loom,   ready to watch the weaving happen.



.

the scrolls stare back like a shopfront window
where the mannequins wear my metaphors,
   price tags swinging from their wrists.

           You didn't shake their wrists,

           but I saw it nonetheless—
      tags fluttering away like pale,
    misunderstood butterflies.




.

the scrolls tilt on their shelves
        as the ground shifts,
                   glass trembling

with the weight of heirlooms and
wings—beyond the frost line:
                     a small planet turns,

its orbit tugging at the tags that rise
                         —like butterflies
   from these wrists of stone.




.

what bleeds and what belongs?

skin still keeps secrets years on
but it also remembers
how you chose to stay—
even when the red
ran louder than you meant.

The years have grown
moss over my name,
my transgression carved
into memory’s vestibule
always finding there
one chair turned away,
its back carved with
the shape of your absence.



.

Legend of a Feather’s Loop



Follow the gold path to walk the day from mist to glint —
Feather at dawn, Crow at the fence, Fox in the thistle,
Lantern where the conclave leans close, Hill in the last light,
and the Glint that waits for the hand that knows the way back.


Follow the silver path to retrace the memory —
Glint to Hill, Lantern to Fox, Crow to Feather —
until the first breath of morning closes the circle.



.

Feather drifts in the paddock mist,
catches on a fence where the crow keeps watch,
slips past thistle and shadow‑fox,
rests by the lantern in the council’s glow —
and somewhere beyond the hill,
a glint waits for the hand that knows the way back.




.

Fog writes you in,
hair a shifting font,
clothes, a quiet hearth —
the street braids itself around you.





.

Hair like weather,
clothes like a hearth —
I hold the street open
and let its poems walk past.





.

Wind:
from the south,
carrying the smell of iron.

Sky:
a hinge between
two storms.

Witness:
a gull circling
the drowned bell.



.