I walk the same path
eyes trained
on my feet.
Mud.
Pine needles.
The familiar safety
of down.
Looking up
pulls my neck tight.
My throat resists
the open sky.
Breath shortens.
Chest curls inward.
Birdsong
breaking overhead.
I stand there
half-open,
distracted by release,
relieved enough
to forget the moment
it happened.
When the tension softens
I don’t feel joy yet.
Just absence.
Just space
where strain used to live.
The birds keep singing.
I let the moment pass.
Knowing that one day
looking up
will feel like home
and I won’t remember
when it stopped hurting.
This poem was inspired by Birdsong.
