Empty
Glass bottles sparkle on the windowsill. Filter light against the wall. Sea blue, and floating green.
Empty like the wide expanse of sky. Empty like a tidal pool. Pretty.
Fill up with wildflowers that wither and die. Stand them up tall so they can reach toward the sun and pull steadily steadily away.
Let it be the wanting that drives us forward still. For without control and without our wanting it isn’t quite empty.
We are filled without permission. It all implies a willingness. And I have not been willing.
Can I be not willing but wanting in my empty?