green blades

green blades
spears to the sky

boughs above
a second sky
no one else sees

i enter
thinking distance is distance

but the field corrects me

i am not walking

i am being handled

wind takes a vote
and my balance answers

the ground interrupts
with ridges and soft collapses

a fallen twig
becomes a decision

a shadow
a warning

this is not metaphor

this is operational

the backyard
has become a country

and i am trying to cross it

not alone

voices move through the leaves
family somewhere
ahead
behind
calling from a direction
that won’t hold still

i bumble toward it
arms full of almost-words

trying to name the path
as if naming
could stabilize it

but the field does not care
what i call it

it cares how i move

scale has inverted

i do not act on the world

the world acts on me

every surface
asks something

every step
costs

time thickens
into effort

signal fractures
into guesswork

i feel the edge then

not a line
but a pressure

the moment
i stop trying
to win

and start trying
to read

wind is no longer opposition
it is direction

grass is no longer obstacle
it is pattern

the path does not appear

it reveals

in fragments
in allowances

in small permissions
i did not know
i could earn

movement returns
quietly

not mine

shared

the field loosens

not because i conquered it

but because i stopped
arguing with its grammar

and somewhere ahead

or maybe everywhere at once

voices resolve

closer now

not louder

just reachable

i step through

smaller still

but no longer lost

home is not a place
i arrive at

it is the moment

the world
stops needing
to correct me