The wind passes, counting the world’s wrinkles on tired doors, on old men’s hands, on the trembling barn at time’s breath, every fold is a date etched in wood. Then tells them to the stars wrinkles of stones, ropes, and faces, of blades of grass bent by days’ weight. The constellations ignite in the folds, and night holds its breath to listen. At the rising of dawn, the wind grows light and reveals that every wrinkle was a choice a small map of life that goes on. The stars smile, and the sky becomes home.