Member Poem

A grain of sand
inside my sandal
and I suddenly remember
how stars die into dust.
That I’m walking on stardust
and complaining.

The ants know something we don’t.
Their roads are invisible
but they follow them like scripture.
I can’t even follow my own thoughts
without checking my phone.

There’s a spider web in the corner of the balcony.
Perfect geometry,
unplanned architecture.
I watch the wind tear it apart,
and she begins again.
No crying.
Just silk.

At 2am I hear an owl call once,
and wait for the reply.
It never comes.
Not every message needs an answer
to mean something.

The moon was clipped tonight—
a thumbnail,
bitten.
Still bright enough to light my notebook.
Still enough to make me
stop mid-sentence
and stare.

The universe doesn’t shout.
It leaves thumbprints on fogged glass,
patterns in tea leaves,
coincidences too weird to be accidents.

Sometimes I think the real truths
aren’t hidden in telescopes
but in the way my mother
presses her fingers to my forehead
when I can’t sleep.

I don’t know how anything works.
Not gravity. Not forgiveness.
Not why mangoes taste sweeter
when eaten standing up.

But I know this:
the smallest things
keep choosing to exist.
And that feels like enough.