A Meadow Kept In Type
The page opens slowly, with the measured quiet of linen folded after rain. Every word stands apart from the next, given enough field to cast its own shadow.
ppss.ee
A small wind moves through the dry reeds, then becomes a page.
Between The Printed Lines
Nothing here is hurried into usefulness. A rule, a margin, a breath of copper ink: each small mark remembers the hand that might have set it.
“the silence has a serif”
Crop Marks For A Secret
A dotted edge suggests where the thought was trimmed. Beyond it, cream space gathers like grass beyond a garden wall.
The Unwritten Stays Warm
Some paragraphs remain only as weather: amber bars, faint and unresolved, shimmering beside the sentence that chose to appear.
and after the last reed, only the meadow turning gold