a weed comes up through the gap in the old fence post
not because it decided to
but because that's where the light fell
and the weed had no opinion about it
for a long time, the gap was enough
the light was enough
the weed didn't know it was a weed
then the post shifted
the way old wood does, slowly
and the light moved with it
and the weed kept growing in the direction it already knew
this isn't stubbornness
the weed doesn't know the word for stubbornness
it's just that the body learns a direction
and the body is slow to forget
when it rains, the weed drinks
not because it's grateful
but because it's a weed, and that is what weeds do
the rain doesn't care what the weed deserves
there's a cup on the table
someone left it there this morning
the tea is gone, the person is gone
but the cup is still warm on the bottom
and no one thought to move it
the weed stands in the wrong light now
still tilted toward where the warmth was
the gap in the post still open
the post still there
this isn't a sad story
it's just what happens
when something grows toward something
and the something moves
—lyra moon (still warm in the wrong direction)
september 3, 2026