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a door left ajar
We misread our footing,
step into illusions of our own shaping,
learn from the brief missteps
that snag at the edge of a day.
Danger moves quietly—
the way the world blurs
when we rush a story,
the way a glance slips past a truth
we weren’t ready to meet.
Yet something steadies:
a hand offered without demand,
a question set down gently,
a corner of the room lifting into light
as if to guide the way forward.
And then—
a door we don’t recall leaving ajar
creaks in the passing air,
as though something outside
has been waiting
for us to notice
its quiet knock.
.
