“Feel the breeze,” you said.

-so I lifted my arms
to feel
the wonder-

The earth is round, but we do not fall through its ground until death has signed
its lease with us.

I am not the architect.
How could I be?

I do not know how to grind
the sunny stink of marigolds
into a yellow paste
meant for sky painting.
Those before and near me
have left directions, recipes,
but how will I reach the sun,
and where will my ladder rest?

You, not I, ripple.
You ripple across
the stillness of leaves and ponds,
forgotten sidewalks,
rusted trailer rooftops,
and blooming thoughts
waiting for harvest.

I am only here
to witness your truths.