I’ve crumpled my calendar,
days folding into themselves
without demarcations—
like a world without borders
that divide


as if a country
could own the water
could own the wind.

My wild garden keeps time for me.
Yesterday, the first freesias appeared
like a quiet explosion
or magician’s act—

And I knew it was February.

I placed a few fragile stems in a jar,
breathed in
the perfume of persistence.
In a world swaying like a rope bridge,
the scent steadies
my feet.

It’s still winter, but we haven’t seen rain
for months—
orange nasturtiums are curling,
lavender blooms turning gray.

But the oxalis don’t seem to care—
their bright yellow faces
drinking sunlight
as they spread green arms
across the lawn
as if any kind of calendar was nothing
more than a puffball in the air.