by Zuri Yassin
A sock on the floor
refuses to explain
how it escaped the laundry basket
again.
The mail arrives
with its usual confidence,
stacking itself neatly
as if it were delivering
something more important
than coupons and dust.
A spoon clinks in a mug
a tiny bell
announcing nothing in particular.
Outside,
a dog barks at a leaf
that dared to move.
And the day goes on,
quietly heroic,
carrying a thousand small moments
that never ask
to be remembered
but linger anyway.
Art by Aistė Bugailiškytė, “Solitude”
About the Author
Zuri is a poet, who learned early how to rebuild, and she’s been doing it ever since.