she is made of half-lit rooms
where shadows hang like memories,
where the windows linger open,
casting a draft
that won’t let the curtains rest.
her hands are full,
full of broken things.
she was told to let them go,
but she refused to stop believing
that anything held with enough tenderness
can still be mended.
within her voice is rain,
the soft, unhurried tapping
against your sunroom windows
in late July;
the kind of softness
that teaches a garden
how to survive
just one more summer.
she is a nomad,
searching every horizon
for a home she has not yet seen,
certain that somewhere
there is a version of the world
gentler than the one
she inherited.
7/1/26
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