The Causeway, Remembered

Some thresholds are not crossed once.
They are carried.

Causeway

The road narrows.
Then the light.

Water on either side
holds the sky.

The body slows
without instruction.

Stone does not open.
It waits.

Your shoulders lower.
You did not tell them to.

Inside, distance lengthens.
Breath slows.

Figures in shadow,
mid-gesture,
balance undecided.

Movement has not happened—
and yet the air knows.

You step back.
Out of courtesy.

Rain arrives.
Leaves.

You carry away
a change in weight.

What Remains of the Causeway

Not the stone.
Not the water.

The slowing.

The way the body
learned to wait
without being told.

Light resting
where it fell.
Time
unshouldered.

You stood.
That was enough.

Now—
elsewhere—
rooms move too quickly.

Yet sometimes
your foot hesitates.
Your breath
does not follow at once.

The causeway exists.
You know this.

What is gone
is the measure
that held you
and let you remain.