katlian street in late august and a heathered black wool zip neck, too warm, carried in a curled palm

fading brown wood
wraps itself around
a wooden frame.
atop it all,
a shingling
of slate gray
and moss,
a gutter
clinging lazily
to the edge.

human hands,
some of it
human hands,
though not all,
but human hands
affix a sign,
plastic black with
orange lettering,
shouting
“No Trespassing”,
to all who might
wander by.

up there,
up there in that
gutter, a plant
(not by human hands)
is unbothered
in the wind.
it sways and stills,
it flutters and
comes gently
to a stop.
it beckons
all who wander
by, without command
it motions;
go where
your wind points
you. and
rest,
when your rest
calls you
back.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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