A small pot,small leaves.The tips of the leavesremain outside the railing.Each time the wind comes,there is a small sound.
Early morning.One clothespinhas fallen to the floorand stays there.The window across the wayis still quiet.
Keys and a bagare in my hands.The wind pushesthe pot once more.At the edge of the soilone pebble reaches the floor.
Into the gap of the railingI insert only my fingertipsand push the pot inwardby two fingers' width.Soil clingsto my fingertips.
That person is visibleonly sometimes:a shadow of white clothbefore the mailboxes.No one says anythingabout the pot.
The next morningthat person is standing therebefore the pot.Their hands remain still.My feet remain still.The white cloth remains still.