I think the trees are exchanging information again.
Not through roots
but through hesitation.
Every branch holding still
a fraction too long
before surrendering to wind.
This morning the world appeared slightly misaligned:
steam rising sideways from my tea,
a gull circling the parking garage
like it had forgotten the existence of oceans,
my own reflection arriving late
in the dark glass of a storefront.
Maybe love survives this way.
Not dramatically.
Not as monument.
But as a repetition so precise
the universe keeps mistaking it
for one of its physical laws.
The moon pulls water.
Heat bends metal.
Somewhere inside the chest,
something continues
despite every ending placed before it.
Even after the hand releases the hand.
Like the way birds continue singing
during the five seconds after thunder,
as if they hear a door reopening
the rest of us mistake for noise.
Even now,
the flowers on my balcony
close themselves carefully at dusk,
as though darkness
were only another form of listening.
—Malwina Buldys
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