Deflection

A question met with sudden spin,

The edges blurred, the frame worn thin,

New stories placed in urgent rows,

Where none had stood a breath ago.

Details bloomed in sly sincere,

Too made, too quick, to rise from here,

Each petal shaped to bend the light,

Each stem arranged to hide from sight.

And still, no hand had pressed them near,

No step pursued, no chase to steer,

The telling swelled, and in its climb

It fed the root that broke its spine.

Silence did what words could not,

It let the tide restore its plot,

And left the sand to mark the way

The water curved, then slipped away.

Cathrine Hottran 2025