She was never a house I built to keep.
she was a season passing through my hands.
A wild spring bird resting on my windowsill,
borrowing my sky before learning her own.
I counted years like I had endless summers,
not knowing motherhood was a suitcase packed in slow motion.
Now her silence drifts like unopened letters in the wind,
and I stand on an empty porch
Listening intently for her busy wings.
