Words land like pebbles
on chalked numbers—
each one a small return
to the child I was,
counting squares
as if a future
could be hopped into.
on chalked numbers—
each one a small return
to the child I was,
counting squares
as if a future
could be hopped into.
The afternoon opens like green fruit.
The lawn shines.
Sprinklers tick and flick.
You tell me, wait—
the world will find its shape again,
as if time were a deckchair
we could fold, then open
to find its pieces
suddenly neat and framed.
The lawn shines.
Sprinklers tick and flick.
You tell me, wait—
the world will find its shape again,
as if time were a deckchair
we could fold, then open
to find its pieces
suddenly neat and framed.
Looking back, it felt simple—
a girl in a film slowing her run
to let a friend catch up,
or a man lifting his hands from the wheel.
Faith also needs
its moment of sky.
a girl in a film slowing her run
to let a friend catch up,
or a man lifting his hands from the wheel.
Faith also needs
its moment of sky.
Outside, sprinklers sing
their thin silver hymns,
and everything feels so close
I might press my palm into
the water
and call it real.
their thin silver hymns,
and everything feels so close
I might press my palm into
the water
and call it real.
