To the one who says get lots of sleep
as though sleep were a thing you could gather—
an armful of it, heaped like laundry,
still warm.
To the one who counts steps
not because the number matters
but because counting is a way of lasting
through the hours between.
To the one who holds meetings
like small stones in the mouth,
smoothing each one before spitting it out
into the afternoon.
I wanted to tell you:
the humidity is ninety-three percent
and everything I touch
blooms.