The Place That Circles Itself

Half Acre Drive winds like spilled thread,  

soft and looping, humming soft secrets.  

An inlet tucked into a corner of quiet—  

a cul-de-sac with no release, no escape,  

its roads knot themselves into whispers.  

You turn the same curve twice, maybe three,  

and the houses all press closer, watching.  

Each door knows your name before you knock,  

each tree bends to the weight of recognition.  

The air here tastes like leftover summers,  

the kind that settle heavy in your lungs.  

Children learn early not to follow runaway balls,  

for they’ll only meet their beginning again.  

Somewhere along the bend lives a woman  

who spends her days braiding gold and regret.  

She says the sky listens here with its hands,  

and some days, its touch feels too intimate.  

Here, gravity feels like it leans forward,  

always urging you to sit and stay.  

Even your shadow grows wide and patient,  

learning the art of always returning.