...without much ceremony
the orchid on window's sill
shifts room's first light—
a new bloom opened overnight,
its blue‑lavender edge
catching recall in its wave
a palette from long ago.

From the kitchen
comes a soft crack of corn
warming in a pot,
each burst taking on
a faint ivory sheen
as it unfurls.

Beside it, sliced bread
toasts to a steady warmth—
moving through the house.

We don’t tally the years.
We read them in plants
that have stayed with us—
in their thicker stem,
by way of kept seasons
choosing to open again.

The rooms look much the same
as they did yesterday,
but the bloom shifts the place
by a fraction—

a quiet reminder carried
in colour and morning warmth
that another year has settled in,
and we’re still here,

doing the next thing
side‑by‑side.

.