A few small lights at the centre.
The dark keeps them — not enough to save anything.
Enough to stay.
The opening is not empty.
It is where the dark thins
without disappearing.
Under the skin of winter — leaves, lines, the memory of roots.
The cold keeps what the earth cannot yet carry.
Stored. Not hidden. Waiting to be returned.
The city has an underside, perhaps even an unconscious.
Here, darkness is held in a circle;
light waits at the far end, indifferent.
The body arrives before the soul.
Some of us have been waiting at the far bank for years.
The trees were larger than the day.
She walked through them quietly,
carrying the only colour left.
The field has erased almost everything.
Three forms remain on the horizon,
quiet enough to outlast what has not yet arrived.
Some things remain
for the one at the far bank.
The vessel moves.
The sky shifts its mind; the mountains dissolve.
No arrival is promised.
These works were made in different places and seasons, but they return to the same condition.
Each image stands where the outside world begins to turn inward. Not as symbol. Not as explanation. As evidence that the world has seams — and that, sometimes, they become visible.