Weather Vanes

On the corner of a quiet town, a copper arrow turns my grandmother's window seat,

where sunlight always learns to find the edges of a morning and soften

every line. I trace the letters of the sky and wish the world was mine.

Mine. But I kept checking all the maps for answers that would stay,

counting footsteps in the dust until they washed away.

Then I heard a whisper in the ears and it called me by my name,

said let the pivot do the work,

you don't have to be the same.