Tumbleweed — passing through

a shape in the wind

no one placed it carefully —

still, it arrives

no root to return to

only the sky remembering

where the ground once was

the wind makes decisions

before thought settles

the body follows

through spaces of people

nothing catches or holds

just a drifting through

caught for a moment

on something slight

not enough to stay

visible, perhaps

but not called forward

not asked to land

and still, something gathers

in the turning

nothing entirely lost

the field moves on

and the body with it

carried, then gone