you who held this not as book
but something warm and breathing
you who traced the thread
with fingertip or thought

you are not guest here
but remembered
by pig
by chipmunk
by all who gathered unseen

you who kept walking
even when the path thinned
even when the green grew louder than speech

you are read
as much as reading

and though no one said your name
the vine leaned toward you
as if it knew
already
you were coming