In stillness, it sits in the wallpaper 
witnessing my dance.   
It waves from the ivy across the window, 
passes by on butterfly wings. 

It comes in visions through half opened eyes, 
half wakened dreams, 
in the liminal space between pillow and toothbrush, 
between dreamworld, 
and the one where hands hold pens and write. 

It is drawn in the sky in liquid chalk, 
it is the ever changing shoreline. 
It is the smell of the riverbed, 
the mud and the salt, 
the rotting seaweed and the bottle with no message inside 
bobbing in its midst. 

I see it in the proboscis of a hummingbird hawk-moth 
probing for nectar, 
in the wild flowers thriving through their cycles, 
taking it as it comes. 

I see it in the shape of my beloved's shoulders, 
feel it in my longing to lean on them, 
in the depth of the truth, the Moon, 
that lives in his eyes. 

I hear it in passing conversations, 
in the lightness of the laughter 
from an enviable gathering at the riverside café. 

I feel its burn in the incessant murmur 
of the demon below, 
in the perpetual need to cut the final cords that tie me to it, 
to pack the final boxes and never look back. 

I feel it fluttering in my chest, 
in the invisible promise of my bodyguard, 
the Moon on both sides of my destiny, 
flowing down 
to lift me home with it. 

©️ Sirpa