Alone Was Yesterday

Yesterday…

That dim room where silence
pretended to be shelter,
revealed the texture of under‑rock secrets,
those private geographies
you only find when wandering off the trail
with no map,
no companion,
just the pulse of your own footsteps
trying to prove you still exist.
I wore that day like a forgotten tree house,
its wooden planks creaking with old stories
I once thought only children could hear.

But today…

 Arrives sideways,
unapologetic,
a fresh disturbance in the air,
like the first gust before a storm
that suddenly feels
less like warning
and more like invitation.
Today is the cracked dial‑face of the sky
turning not for obligation
but for curiosity,
as if Time itself, finally tired
of being paternal, neat, or linear,
decides instead to sprawl its Dalí‑limbs
across morning and ask me to follow its bend.

Tomorrow…

I can already sense it gathering
its improbable tools:
the glint of a supermarket conveyor belt,
the hush before a library printer starts,
the way a lone shopping cart
glides toward me as if summoned
by some absurd cosmic choreography.
These small inordinate things,
the ones no one writes odes for,
pull me out of myself,
making loneliness an outdated theory,
a superstition like believing
shadows are loyal only in sunlight.

And then…

A shimmer.
A hummingbird,
green as a new thought,
hovers just beyond my open window,
suspending time on its own tiny axis.
It pauses before its wings accelerate
into a silvery blur that pushes

a cool breeze toward me,
a whispered reminder
carried in feathered physics:
no one is ever truly alone;
we only forget that all of Nature
has always been willing to visit.

So much company for a once lonely one.