Zebra Seeking Spoons

On the good days

the air feels lighter,

as if gravity has loosened its grip.

I rise without bargaining,

my body not a cage but a doorway.

The hours open wide—

I make tea,

I laugh too loud,

I carry my own bags to the car.

Nothing miraculous,

yet everything miraculous.

I remember what it feels like

to belong to the rhythm of the world,

to move without counting spoons,

to trust my legs, my breath, my voice.

The good days are fragile,

but they glow like stained glass,

holding all the broken pieces together,

reminding me why I keep going—

why I keep hoping

for another one.