Uplift

by Vikram Bhaskaran,

Friday, Feb 28, 2025

She says it, clear as the breath between tides,

a feather of sound, weightless on her tongue—
uplift.

I hold the word in my hands like a fledgling,
fragile, astonished at its own wings.
Outside, the late afternoon drapes itself in gold,
branches loosening their grip on light.

For days, silence pressed against the walls,
the hush of machines, the slow count of heartbeats.
But now, this single word—
a wind rising beneath the bones of the world.

Somewhere, the planets are pulling into place,
a slow and silent gathering—
not a perfect line, but near enough,
a moment when gravity holds its breath.

I see it everywhere
how even the smallest voice can call the stars to order.

I want to tell her—
how words are ladders, how even one
can unfurl into flight.

She closes her eyes,
but I know she feels it too—
the lift, the lightness,
the quiet promise of upward.