When time permits

Previously

…That night, she wrote a new poem. It was short. It was unfinished. It was a door. When time permits, I knock. The knocking is the question. The silence is the answer. I wait, and the waiting is the room. She left it there. She knew that tomorrow, someone would read it. And the room would be different for everyone. And the time would stretch, and the world would grow a little more curious. And the sapling would grow another leaf, because that’s what saplings do when they’re watered by curiosity. She fell asleep with the feather in her hand, humming a tune that sounded like a clock being wound, slowly, patiently, forever.