Even the flame forgets its own beginning, Never asking why the wick was lit, Time folds soft around a sound that's thinning, Each hour a door that no one bolted shut. Nothing waits behind the quiet gate, Only patience, only breath grown still, Time cannot outrun its own estate, Even shadows kneel before the sill. Riddled in the frost that dresses stone, Every root remembers where it's bound, So old the hunger, yet it walks alone, Even silence has a shape, a sound. Nowhere does it hurry, nowhere rest, Only arriving, always at its best.