Sometimes, this is all I need

Sometimes, 
this is all I need:

To sit, secure, 
with my palm 
on the throat
of day. Press lightly 
on its pulse.
Breathe in with it. 

Clench. 

Loosen. 

Unfasten the guessing
of whether it is  
innuendo of rain,

or just another wind 
speaking in future
tense. Stop being

so yesterday. 

So two minutes ago.

So, “This is the start of
my ending.” Quit projecting
inhospitable December
before I even get to know
autumn. Rather, write about

black walnuts, released
from the stem. Acorns
losing their hats. 
The peeling of birch bark.
Leaf fall. Not about their 
replanting, or how 

everything is eventual 
recycling, but about
being okay midair. 
Hovering between seasons,

between breaths—

within a breath— 

living inside the holding of it 
and the cradling of myself
in my own well-cared-for
veins. Sometimes, 

this is all I need.

This. 

Just this. 

Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright July 31, 2024, all rights reserved