The Vertigo of Being Alive

As gravity pulls the last leaves

from October’s reluctant hands,

I learn that time is not a river

but a winged chariot on a carousel.

The morning breaks like an egg,

sunny side up like the promises

we made when we believed

in straight lines and solid ground.

Now I understand why my grandmother kept her shoes by the door,

ready for earthquakes that never came,

or came so slowly we called them seasons.

The plates shift beneath my feet,

And the Earth tilts on its axis.

Outside, the joggers run in place

on treadmills that go nowhere,

while somewhere

a child discovers that her shadow follows her even indoors,

cast by artificial suns we’ve hung from every ceiling.

The news speaks in tongues of fire and flood,

but here in the kitchen the bread still rises,

defying gravity with the same stubborn hope

that makes flowers push through sidewalk cracks,

that makes us wake each morning and tie our shoes

as if walking meant something.

Just as the world tilts forward,

I tilt with it,

learning to love,

the vertigo of being alive

in a universe that spins without asking permission,

where every goodbye

is practice for the last one,

and every hello

is a small act of faith