for the hush before June

In the hush, a bird
no larger than a breath
rests in the cup of your hand—
all pulse, no plan.
The road was too wide,
the wing too wrong,
but still you crossed the line
between knowing and trying.

You learn that spiders feed the brain—
taurine spun in silk and leg.
So you tweeze what you can,
insect by insect,
as if the mind could be built
from kindness and chitin,
from blueberries and borrowed time.

A girl in your house
sleeps like a fallen comet—
burnt out, becoming.
The night doesn’t ask much—
just that you keep still
long enough for the world
to breathe its secrets near.

Outside, the moon sharpens.
Inside, June waits like a bell
that hasn’t rung yet.

And you,
weary but grateful,
are a kind of spider, too—
spinning memory between
what you love
and what you cannot keep.