She carries questions
A poem.
These words are shared freely.
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She carries questions
like pockets full of shells
some smooth,
some still humming with the sea.
She did not gather them on purpose.
They found her
while she was busy looking at clouds,
while her hands were empty
and open.
Each one is small enough
to be overlooked,
yet heavy with elsewhere.
A geography of listening.
When the world grows sharp,
she presses one to her ear
and hears not answers,
but tides;
arriving, leaving,
arriving again.
They tell her nothing urgent.
Only this:
wonder is not a problem to solve.
It is a place to stand.
And so she walks on,
pockets softly clinking,
leaving a faint salt-song behind her,
the future leaning close,
trying to listen.
