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how to hold on
The stamen flings its dust
like it believes in futures.
Out west, a burnt-out paddock carries
mycelium webs beneath the ash—
no speeches, just the steady work
of mending underfoot.
Lichen grips the stone like it owns it.
Bloody-minded, brittle,
refusing to die
on anyone else’s schedule.
And me—well—
I’ve learnt not to pray for rain,
but to wring what’s left
from clouds that don’t care.
Somewhere in the mess of it,
a calyx—
just doing its job,
quiet as breath
before the bloom.
