The Weight of Ordinary Days
We thought the road would open
like a polite door.
Instead, it asked for rent—
blood, patience, unfinished sleep.
We learned to carry silence
the way workers carry iron:
close to the spine,
without complaint.
Some walked beside us
for a season of weather,
then vanished at the next turning,
leaving their warmth in the air.
Fortune, that moody landlord,
changed the locks overnight.
Still, the caravan moved.
Still, our shoes remembered forward.
There were losses
that taught us shape,
and distances
that taught us name.
Life was never easy.
Only our youth was certain it would be.
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