Threshold

Poem - Threshold

One window is enough. One frame to watch the garden decide whether it will stay.

I have lived in rooms the size of specific feelings - a kitchen the weight of a Tuesday, a hallway exactly as wide as my mother's patience.

This one has a door that opens onto other doors. Each one translucent, each one an address I can still recite by heart: the postcode, the stairwell, which step creaked.

I carried them like fabric folded small. Not heavy. Present. The way a hand remembers a railing it no longer touches.

Outside, the road curves through hills the color of something I won't name because naming would make it a fact instead of a feeling.

The garden is not dying. The garden is deciding. There is a difference the way there is a difference between sleeping and resting.

All things flow. I know this. I know this the way I know my hands will grow if I bury them in the right soil, and swallows will come, and the ink will stain the hollows of my fingers a particular blue that is not quite green and not quite grief.

One window. One road. One room I can fold and carry and set up again wherever the light is warm and the soil is sure.

I am not leaving. I am learning what is portable.