unintentional lessons

how the redwoods, though burning, left roots enough to bear generations.
how the mint has begun to grow in a jar of water.
how the cat came back long after you’d believed it gone.
how even a moonless night can reveal a road, a mailbox, a house.
how a freshly painted wall is the map of your freedom.
how the wind dislodges the honeysuckle but leaves the sidewalk intact.
how a song released in a highway car unburdens the lungs.
how the silence of the phone is its own currency.
how easily sunlight tilts a face upward.
how the long walk toward ice cream cancels the guilt.
how the wisteria kept crawling skyward despite the neighbor’s chemical assault.
how a piece of paper can enrapture, consume, and disassemble.
how the light never goes off in the refrigerator.
how you said “yes” but meant “not really.”
how the gut delivers the truth.
how you let the peach ripen until it was as sweet as you wanted.
how you need a key for your car, then gas.
how much better you see yourself naked.
how the new furniture arrived just in time.
how you needed a push to make the trip.
how ice hovers in a glass, then disappears.
how a left-hand turn into traffic leaves you exhilarated.
how his smile made you forget how old you were.
how sand is easier to walk on barefoot.
how you forgot your wallet in the car for a whole day.
how after she said the words, “I’m always anxious,” both of you felt better.
how you didn’t need a second cup of coffee to wake up.
how 31 stairs separate you from the front door.
how it’s better to look down than look away.
how your mother saved the fallen plums, lay them in a white bowl
at the foot of your kitchen window.
how you didn’t even have to ask.