I can understand that one is knowledgeable,
While understanding that this is not correlative or indicative of intelligence.
Likewise, I can understand one is both, or can be both,
And respect that in specific.
Yet; I can likewise understand,
That while the aforementioned individual(s)
Merits respect in that or those specific aspect(s) and/or attribute(s),
That that individual lacks patience & compassion.
And so that individual is ultimately unworthy/undeserving
Of any greater respect than in understanding them.

Otherwise, I hamper myself & only hinder others
In both intelligence & understanding.

Conversely, I can appreciate that one may understand what they're talking about
Even if I don't fully understand the experience as described.
Whether this is an aspect of one's own ignorance, as in a lack of understanding or confusion,
Or to/by the nature of how/what information is conveyed.
I can appreciate that communication can sometimes be difficult.
I can respect that individual still;
But only if they're earnestly, honestly trying & attempting to.
Only if they're honest & forthright in it & even about it.

Otherwise, they hamper only themselves & hinder others
In both knowledge & intelligence.

Just the thought of you
Brings much-needed peace
In this moment of glistening pupils
So, thank-you
For your healing presence
In my heart.

the fox spotted me;
as i rounded the corner
bags of groceries
jostling awkwardly
clutched in one fist
oblivious as i rummaged
the depths of my pocket
for the front door key
with the other

long before i spotted it;
that vulpine form
sleek and crafty
elusive yet stark
amongst these surroundings
more often heard
seldom seen
fleetingly at that

in the time that
it took me to recognise
this incursion
of the majesty of animal
upon the mundane of man
to stop and take notice
and give the underapreciated
the moment it deserved
to marvel as a child might
that cunning visitor had
already turned tail
determined and decided
it took its chosen course
without pause

She never comments.
Never signs her name on my board.
She just sits quietly in my silence,
gathering something that once gathered me.

Now I find myself
hanging in her gallery of words—
a whisper, reposted,
a breeze tucked between stanzas.

Each hush she curates
feels like a fragment of heartbreak,
a delicate recollection
made sacred in its echo.