Sphdn (uhen)

I found a bench half-buried in snow, barely visible, but solid. I brushed it off and sat. The cold bit through my coat, but I stayed. Not for comfort, but for clarity. Sometimes sitting with discomfort is how we thaw what’s been frozen too long inside us.

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Leaves pirouetted like copper ballerinas, tutus snagged in wind’s clawed hands. I clapped for collapse and thought: applause is anatomy for autumn—it clatters from bone, it cracks from knuckles when stems snap like string snapping prayer.

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Beyond the scarred edge of desert coils wind, grinding psalms into dunes salted bright with grit. I bite its hiss raw, teeth gnashing vowels sharp as bone, whispering prayers that snap like glass under the rusted ribs of heat and ruin.

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I’ve been trying to listen more than I speak.

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