It's Still Life

This poem remembers a bicycle ride this week beneath Nordic sun, and the moment I left my grandmother’s ring in the creek beside her old house. I wore it on my thumb one heedless summer as a child. It was time to release and return it. Gravity is its own language — and the land always knows what belongs.

Gravity Is Its Own Language

I recite
this journey
in lines—
in stanzas—
remind myself
every journey is poetry
though not always
poetic.

Not like the narrow ribbon of sunlight across the beach, naming itself Morning.

These days taste
of sharp salty lakrids.
I want them to linger—
let the flavour cling
to my lips
the way ripe wheat
finds its way
deep into a sneeze.

I cycle along a verge thick
with wildflowers—
yellow,
white,
purple.

Red-and-white road signs
pointing to names I’ve long forgotten.
Morning coffee.
Smoked fish.
You are Nordic.

The sun
makes me squint,
stings my cheeks.
North’s summer:
long days
that trick the birds
into singing
all night
while bats chase
the stars.

I’m tempted
to take a photo —
right now, my legs aren’t convinced that
Denmark is flat.
It’s not, you know,
flat,
but then this is
Bornholm.