Enough Light

I know you're tired. I know the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix.

I used to draw the map with more on it— the house would be bigger, the job would have a window,

The earth is trying something underneath— you feel it in the softness of the ground, a stirring, like a sleeper holding breath

Spring doesn't arrive. It trespasses— one crocus first,

You've spent thirty years trying to be quieter, smaller, more convenient—

The man at the coffee shop paid for the person behind him. This is not the poem.