Fugue for the Distant Shallows

It begins like this: a hush

carved from the edges of everything

the porch railing warm from the long wait of noon,

a single bee, late, drunk

tumbling past the frame of the open screen door

And suddenly

the light leans in differently

Not brighter, not even warmer

but with a weightless intent

like it knows a secret

and isn’t sure if you’re ready to hear it

A pane of glass does not declare its clarity

it simply stops being seen

So too the lake this morning

not rippling, not still

held in that old tension

between wanting and letting be

You are barefoot

You are almost nothing

And the wooden dock you stand on

carries the memory of all its dry summers

faded splinters, sun-bleached screws

that creak like a body remembering

how to kneel

This is the part where time folds

creases like linen between seasons

and you remember a voice

not what it said

but how it paused between syllables

Everything delicate lives here

the breath before apology

a reed poised with weightless punctuation

your reflection when you’re not looking for it

There is a kind of forgiveness

that requires no sound

Only the understanding

that light does not choose what it touches

and yet, it touches

You inhale. The dock exhales

Something turns in the dark undercurrent

like a thought you almost caught

Nothing breaks the surface

but something begins