a gentle place

In these hours between dusk and midnight I find myself mimicking the matriarch. I mend small things. Put love into inanimate objects. Breathe immortality into all that I own.

I wonder at the passage of time. My growing attention to detail. A patience that comes from glances cast over a shoulder, and seeing a whole world unfold.

Not that I am perturbed by these things. Not that my hair falls like autumn into winter. Though my habits and addresses are deciduous, I know myself to be more perennial than the small scraps of memories one calls a life.

And so I impregnate pages. Nourish small openings of hope. Sing lullabies to my garden. Tell bedtime stories to my fears.

These insignificant gestures and humble moments are enough
for me
for now