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Mindfulness

“Alright,” Yara said. “Let’s begin.“
But look at the curve of the fruit
Words were still there—precise, available, intact
They arrived expecting forecasts
He stopped a few paces short.
The day shaped itself.
They were pinned with her charcoal sketches
Progress as virtue. Motion as meaning. Improvement without finish.
It was a complex spiral of translucent violet petals
“It’s wilting,” Elara said, her hand still on the valve. “I’m fixing the intake.”
Clarity without motion. Expression without displacemen
She wasn’t saving the station today. She was just washing her hands

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