A voice with years in its pocket

The call goes out, not loud, just true.

A voice with years in its pocket,

not asking for permission, just knocking steady.

After the call, a quiet laugh, not victory, just breathing.

We carry the spark like a match cupped against the wind.

Small, stubborn, enough. In the hush, we set two cups down, leaving room at the table.

Tomorrow’s door, we’ll knock again.