The wind blows. Leaves rustle on the ground.
I carry a bucket of scraps out to the garden. A shovel digs a hole deep enough for me to feed the ground. A few steps away, plants are wilting. Weeds are taking over. Seasons come and go, and now it’s cold.
I walk away with the shovel and bucket, now empty. Inside, I take a seat on a cushion and face the wall. Thoughts come and go, and now it’s cold.
The blood pumping through my leg grabs my attention. Then my breath, and the sounds outside.
For a moment, I forget me.
All that is, is the world.