The Unread Page

By Liz Picardal, June 18, 2026

The willow wore the evening

like a cathedral wears its bells,

not to be heard,

but to remind the sky of silence.

I sat between timber and horizon,

holding a closed book

that weighed less than memory

and more than certainty.

Beyond the field,

the light gathered itself into gold,

like a kingdom preparing to leave

without announcing its departure.

The pages remained untouched.

Some stories are not read.

They are weathered.

They arrive as seasons,

teaching the heart a language

the tongue was never meant to speak.

The willow knew this.

Its roots were buried in yesterday,

its branches rehearsing tomorrow,

while its body stood patiently

inside a moment that belonged to neither.

And I wondered

if becoming

was never the turning of pages,

but the courage

to remain open

when no answer arrived,

to let the unwritten linger,

while the wind

composed its quiet scripture

across every blank place

I had mistaken for an ending.