Before

The light touches me again.
The light came and went.
The air moved.
Then didn't.
Shapes passed.
None stayed.
Roots waited.
Nothing touched.

———

Light Returns

The light touches me again.
It stays longer now.
Lingers on the same side of my tallest leaf.
It's stronger each day,
But soft at the edges.
The cold stays outside.
It knocks against the barrier,
But doesn't come in.

—

The opening allows the shape in.
Then closes again.
Soft.
Sharp at the edge.
Its moves measured.
Fabric moving on itself.
Like before.
It sinks into the hollow near me.
They press their weight there often.
Not always.
Often enough that they press a pattern.

———

Presence

Their warmth spreads outward.
Slowly, not far.
It reaches my lowest leaf.
It stays longer than other shapes.
There is scent too.
Sweet, then sharp.
It stays behind.
Caught in the fibres near the space where they rest.

—

Sometimes they bring folded things.
Sometimes they bring nothing.
They made a sound.
It rises.
Returns.
Then does not.
They do not make a sound often,
But they return.
I notice that more than anything.

———