I lay down beside the imprint in the sleeping bag. Not to sleep. To listen.
The plants showed me that abandonment is not absence. It is presence turned patient. I lay down beside the imprint in the sleeping bag
The ferns told me about patience—how they unfold their own deaths over and over, each frond a green resurrection. The moss on the tent whispered about softness surviving neglect. The grass that had grown through the campfire's ashes said: Even what burns feeds me. I lay down beside the imprint in the sleeping bag