What Transforms Alone

I found the jar forgotten in the back,

six months of waiting sealed in dark,

the lid locked tight on what I'd meant to keep,

on what I couldn't bear to lose.

The liquid's turned a cloudy shade,

a layer floating on the top,

something living there, unafraid,

working in the dark without a stop.

The smell is sharp, alive, and rotten,

rich with time and its own way,

something that I've long forgotten,

something growing day by day.

I hold it to the light and see

the cloudiness drift and move,

watch it float like it's alive to me,

watch it work to prove

that time keeps working even when

I'm not paying attention,

that things become what they should then,

without my intervention.

I could throw it out.

Could let it spoil or bloom.

Could pretend I never came about

to check on what's in my room.

But I can't.

I put it back into the dark,

let it keep becoming,

let it keep leaving its mark,

let it keep becoming.