This morning,
the forest forgot its name—
wrapped in mist so thick
it felt like the sky had come down
to rest its head on the earth.
The goats waited at the gate,
quiet as children
who’ve learned not to ask
for more than what’s given.
Inside, my dog watched me
with old, forgiving eyes.
He has loved me
through winters
I could not love myself.
The fire took time to catch.
So I sat in the cold,
holding the silence
like a warm bowl.
Sometimes I think
this life is too small—
but then a bird sings
from the fog,
and I cry
because it isn’t.