He’s there again.
By the thyme.
Coiled like an unanswered question.
Blinkless. Boneless.
A ribbon of maybes left on the lawn.
I named him Hesitation
because he doesn’t strike,
doesn’t flee,
just watches like the world will explain itself
if he gives it enough silence.
He is a garter snake.
Ordinary. Harmless.
So why does he feel like a verdict?
I pour water into the soil.
He flicks his tongue like punctuation,
like he’s reading my intentions
and finding them inconsistent.
I ask,
“Do you ever wish you still had legs?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just moves like doubt made flesh.
Graceful. Slightly accusatory.
I think I envy him.
He sheds.
He leaves himself behind
without apology.
No farewell notes.
Just the crumpled version of who he used to be
discarded under the rose bush.
I am still wearing
a version of myself that doesn’t fit.
Too tight in the chest.
Still smiling at the wrong people.
Hesitation knows.
He sees through the rootwork and clover.
He knows I’m not growing. Just… rearranging.
Maybe I am the garden.
Maybe he is just
visiting
me.
