Bleh

Far beyond the field,
past the fence where rust practices patience,
there is a road made of small obediences:
stones agreeing to hold weight,
dust consenting to rise.

I followed that road
through villages stitched from chimney smoke,
through orchards where apples practiced gravity
with the seriousness of philosophers,
through markets where laughter was weighed by hand
and sold by the echo.

Every door I passed had a pulse.
Every window was an eyelid
learning the art of surprise.

There was a baker who kneaded dawn
into a soft republic of bread,
a seamstress who stitched the horizon
to the hem of a wedding dress,
a clockmaker who believed that seconds
were tiny birds,
and if you opened the case too quickly
they would escape.