The spider builds
the same web each morning.
Because the thread is already inside.
No questions asked,
no need to choose a different corner.

The hermit crab
backs into safety 
a borrowed shell
fit over softness,
called home out of habit.

The sea turtle returns
to the original shore,
even when the tide
bites deeper than memory.
The digging begins anyway.

The bird lands
on the same fence post,
though the sky is wide.
Repetition becomes
the song most known.

And I 
with limbs unbound
and voice unstilled 
still whisper old rules
as if they protect.

What would I build
if I didn’t begin
with what I’ve always carried?

Not all pattern is prison, 
but what we live without looking
shrinks the possible,
until we forget
there was ever a gate.

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