A baby. The burgeoning garden and the fading day,

“You’ve gotten so big!”.

A shadow stretched taught, the gradient moon,

a falling leaf.

How many times will I be born? And in whose arms will I be held?

Gently resting; cradled by the sound of your voicemail on repeat.

Loop.

“Is a circle infinite?” I’m feeling lucky.

The answers come to reveal themselves, late at night.