The day cracks open, pale sky sighs,
hands press against what cannot shift.
We wake to the same uneven ground,
the ache where dreams once planted wings,
forgetting flight takes practice, patience, time.
Morning comes as it always does—slow,
peels shadows from walls like old tape.
No one is polished, everything half-built.
Faces are maps with blurred directions,
smudged ink tracing what we’ve lost.
Can we hold the broken mirror gently?
Say, this jagged edge is still part of me.
The car horn is sharp, the air groans.
Still, neighbors pause, nod, carry groceries.
What was untouched will always touch us—
A child tosses stones, the river holds them.