In the place where my days collect,
a drawer waits—
wood, handle, a hush of dust
that gathers like pollen
and holds its own season.
When I remember, I leave something small:
a coin warm from my palm,
a safe…
In the place where my days collect,
a drawer waits—
wood, handle, a hush of dust
that gathers like pollen
and holds its own season.
When I remember, I leave something small:
a coin warm from my palm,
a safe…