At dawn, the hills do not arrive all at once.
First, a fence post.
Then the outline of a thorn tree.
Then a single bird
stitched into the pale cloth of morning.
The world assembles itself piece by piece.
No I’m haste, nothing hurried.
Nothing demanding attention.
Even the wind moves carefully through the grass,
as though afraid to disturb the silence.
I watch the darkness loosen
its grip on the earth
and remember this
that healing happens much the same way
a little light, then another,
until one day you discover
you can see.
The old woman maps the seasons
without a compass.
She measures winter
by the silence of weaver birds,
and summer
by how long the dust lingers
above the road.
On her kitchen table,
a cracked enamel cup
holds three fallen jacaranda flowers.
She studies them
as though they are instructions
for surviving another year.
Outside,
the afternoon drifts slowly west.
A dog sleeps beneath a fig tree.
The sky opens its blue ledger.
Somewhere between loss and gratitude,
she marks her place
and calls it home.
Khayelihle Benghu is a South African poet and writer whose work explores the intersections of myth, spirituality, nature, memory, and the uncanny. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in publications including Person of Interest, About Place Journal, StarLine, Consequence, Solarpunk Magazine, and Mslexia. INSTA
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