Some mornings the pipeline passes and I sit very still, just breathing.
The green checkmarks fill the screen like small ordinary miracles — each one a system believing it is whole.
I think of Savasana. How the body surrenders not from defeat but from completion. How letting go is its own kind of work.
There is a version of me who monitors dashboards all night, who mistakes availability for aliveness.
She is still here. She just learned to breathe between alerts.
Feel free to replace this with your own poem. This is a placeholder to get the structure started.