Lacuna

Late sun leans in

on the pond’s rim,

golden and unhurried,

through the yellow arms

of witch hazel.

The bracken bows low,

still holding its tattered grace

like a prayer half-remembered.

Light gleams, no urgency,

merely the calm of an early night.

Memory and longing

are the human sides to this.

They return, again and again,

until they forget their names.

They whisper, instead,

what they dream of becoming.