Gerkönernøckin

There is, somewhere north of reason,
a village that inventories miracles.

They have a word
for the instant frost surrenders the fence,
for the sigh a pie makes
when the knife first enters,
for the breath between lightning
and the confession of thunder.

And yes—
for the precise, unheralded moment
when what was brown
turns bone-white in the sun.

Gerkönernøckin.

It is not about filth.
It is about time.

About how even the lowly thing
is altered by light,
how shame dries out,
how weather edits the world
without asking.

Children are taught to watch for it—
to notice change at its narrowest seam,
to see when yesterday’s embarrassment
becomes today’s artifact.

Gerkönernøckin:
the hinge of transformation,
the pale bloom of consequence,
the proof that nothing—
not even what we’d rather step around—
escapes the patient hand of sun.

In that village
they ring a small bell for it.
Not loudly.
Just enough to mark
that something has passed
from what it was
into what it will be remembered as.