The Spine of the Earth
In the quiet hours of the morning, when the house is still and the tea has gone cold, I often think about the lines we draw across the earth. We are a species obsessed with boundaries—stone walls, picket fences, invisible borders marked by…
The Weight of a Petal
I keep a pressed jasmine flower inside the pages of a dictionary, its color long ago surrendered to the dry, brittle shade of parchment. It is a fragile thing, so thin that it threatens to crumble into dust if I breathe too heavily upon it.…
The Weight of Breath
There is a particular cold that settles into the marrow. It is not merely a lack of heat; it is a presence. In the north, we learn to move slowly, to conserve the warmth that remains in the chest. Every exhale is a small, white ghost that lingers…