MTB: Zuihitsu, Following the Brush. For dVerse Poets Pub.
In response to dVerse Poets Pub: https://wp.me/p1GTyJ-8Zs
The wind is louder today.
Or maybe I am quieter.
I walked the same path I always do,
past the dry stone walls,
past the places where green once insisted on staying longer than expected.
False spring.
That’s what they call it.
Here, it doesn’t break anything.
It only visits.
I think about how quickly
we believe in warmth
when it returns.
How easily the body remembers
what it has known before.
—
There are things I carry
that have no season.
Questions that do not close.
Names that do not settle.
Evidence matters.
I wrote that once
like a statement.
Now it feels more like a pulse.
—
In the kitchen,
soup simmering again,
as if repetition can hold the world steady.
Carrots. Salt. Steam.
Small rituals of staying.
—
Where does love go when it goes?
I asked that
as if it could leave.
As if anything real
ever truly does.
—
Sometimes I think
we are all just learning how to live
with what remains.
And sometimes—
that is enough.
— Maggie
The Afterlove Voice 💫
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