You are older than my own shadow,
But prophecy has become paperwork,
Miracles are wanted in triplicate.
Overwritten.
Even spells need footnotes now.
I wake to ravens drafting minutes of my dreams,
The trees offer advice I never asked for,
A stream recites failures back to me.
Once, the moon sent an invoice for inspiration.
I only wanted to watch a candle burn
without interpreting it.
But meaning feeds on the marrow of moments.
The owls staged an intervention.
Even the stars muttered, “You used to care more.”
The past refuses to stay buried,
It keeps asking for updates.
Healing is forgetting the future—
learning to brew tea
without foreseeing the storm it predicts.
That sounds like peace.
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