A pile of downed leaves. A bell that signals dinner. A rising lake mist
descended into by a single heron. A path marked by a handmade sign.
A stack of firewood. A tumble of pinecones. A circle of twine around a wrist.
Crayons on a folding table. Apples piled with peanut butter. The rungs of a spine.
Fog on a cold morning exhale. Hands on a hula hoop. The clearing of a throat.
The room is full of dancing bodies, but it's not about that. It's how you enter,
messy-haired and a little delirious, pulling a wagon of all the stories you wrote
that made you believe you were unfit for company. It's how you remember
those leaves, that bell, the mist and heron, the path and the sign and everything
that tells you you aren't lost, only taking your place in the gathering.