reflex
the quickening again —
that breath at the door,
soft as fur,
the dark calling itself night.
something catches at my ankles,
a stumble,
a reach forward,
now caught in the brambles—
fruit beckoning, sticky,
the nectar still sweet
as the thorns take it's due.
each cut,
a place I've been before.
a pulse, small but sure,
rises through the quiet.
warmth moves around me,
breath and laughter
made of the same light.
I find her there,
brightness at the edge of the barb,
the smallest hand
opening the day.