Forms Moving

When the field has been through so many words, it doesn’t rush to be eloquent; it wants breath that doesn’t demand an answer.

the form of leaf, of hand, of word—
none of them still.

language grows lichen at its seams,
meanings change color with rain.

a boundary breathes,
contracts, expands, contracts again.

love, too, is a moving form:
sometimes forest, sometimes fence,
sometimes the air between.

our stories try to crystallize—
and yet, beneath them,
sap keeps running,
soil keeps rearranging itself
around what cannot stay the same.

perhaps being
is the slow art
of unfreezing form—
watching it sway
without demanding shape.