Michael Hawk

Light stretches across the meadow,
touches leaves, stones,
whatever doesn’t flinch.
Warms what it finds
without asking
what I believe,
or whether I deserve it.

Nothing is explained.
Everything is offered.

The birds go on being birds.
No mission statement.
No optimization.
No brand strategy.

Just breath
and the audacity
to take up air.

The river keeps its promises
by moving on,
which sounds simple
until you try it
with grief,
with rage.

I am standing here
with empty hands
and I am done
calling that a failure.

I am listening,
not for answers,
but for the sound
of the world
continuing
without consulting me.

This isn’t a victory.
This isn’t surrender.
It’s a turning.

So I stay.
Not to understand.
To witness.

And I notice
how the day
lets go.