July 27, 2026

It happens anyway. All of it —
the skyward creep of grass; the bustle
of birdsong; the slow arabesque
of sunrise; growth; hunger. The bloom
begs to be plucked, the cup sipped,
the candle lit. Why not pause
for a bit? Sit a spell — smell what arose
right in front of you, right now,
however gentle or sharp. Why not
hold the knife without cutting?
Watch it glint. Why not squint
into the sun and hold its gaze? 
Savor it — bubbly, brisk
and bittersweet; copper and flame
sweating on ice, leaving rings
to seep and stain; easing the grip
on going, on doing, on done.

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love notes
a ritual to start the week