The Architecture of Expectation
We are creatures of the threshold, forever standing on the edge of what has not yet arrived. There is a specific, hollow ache in the hours before the light breaks, a quietude that feels like holding one’s breath in a vast, empty cathedral.…
The Rhythm of the Earth
There is a wild, unwritten language spoken by the soil when it is stirred by force. It is not the quiet language of roots or the slow, patient crawl of moss, but a sudden, violent poetry of dust and muscle. We often mistake stillness for peace,…
The Weight of a Feather
I keep a small, grey feather tucked inside the pages of a book of poetry I haven't opened in years. It is brittle now, the edges frayed like the hem of a winter coat that has seen too many seasons. When I touch it, I am reminded of how much…