Where the Cuckoo Calls

Deep in the woods
where light forgets its urgency,
a single note returns—
not loud,
not near,
but certain.

Cuckoo.

It does not ask
to be followed.
It does not explain
its distance.

Only repeats—
as if time itself
were breathing
through hollow branches.

I stand still,
listening
to what I cannot see.

Cuckoo.

Again—
and the forest shifts,
not in movement,
but in knowing.

Some things
do not come closer
no matter how long
you wait.

They belong
to the space between—
where sound becomes memory,
and memory becomes
a kind of presence.

Cuckoo.

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