I woke up dangerously poetic today.
(Though, between us, I’ve been practicing this habit daily.)
I am dying, yes—but with the elegance of a sunset
that refuses to make a scene while slipping backstage.
I am a poem written in invisible ink,
and today’s verses? What are they?
Just a handful of seeds playing tag with the breeze,
homeless, barefoot, and utterly content.
Will they land in the lap of a god
or in the muddy ditch of entropy?
The wind isn’t telling, and I’ve forgotten to ask.
Who knows? You? Me?
The Scarecrow?
Let’s just say the answer is hiding
under the hat of a passerby
who is in far too much of a hurry to notice
that we are all just rhymes
waiting for a reason to exist.

©️ Beatriz Esmer