a poem by Roger B. Rueda
The future is a rumor
that hasn’t knocked yet—
just the sound of leaves
moving outside your window,
just the smell of bread
before it browns.
But the present,
Anna, the present is this:
your hands deep in soapwater,
pulling a chipped plate from the sink
like it’s a relic from your mother’s youth.
The clink it makes against another
is a kind of music,
a kind of prayer.
The secret is not tomorrow.
It’s the way you tie your laces
without looking.
It’s the breath you take
between sorrow and sleep,
the way you stir sugar into coffee
without needing to measure.
If you hold this moment
long enough—
this sun-drenched, laundry-draped
sliver of now—
you'll find it softens.
Like dough. Like light.
And what follows
will rise because of it.
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