When time permits

Previously

…She walked home slowly, past the baker who was now eating a croissant, past the dog who was now sleeping. The world felt both heavier and lighter, as if she had been given a secret and the secret was that there were no secrets. When she reached her apartment, she placed the sapling on the windowsill, next to the notebook. She didn’t write anything else that day. She just watched the light change, and listened to the hum of the feather, and let the unfinished poem grow in the silence. Tomorrow, she would write again. But tonight, she let the poem be a seed, waiting for the right reader to blow it into the world.