Which

Which

In the hush between two thoughts,
the word “which” lingers like a mist,
a soft‑spun thread that pulls at the seams
of every choice we have yet to make.

It is the hinge on the garden gate,
where the roses of possibility
brush against the thorns of doubt,
and the traveller pauses, hand on the latch.

Which road to tread beneath the amber sky?
Which voice to heed when the wind sighs low?
Which shade of colour to paint the dawning
when the world holds its breath in quiet suspense?

In that brief, trembling pause,
the heart learns to listen,
to weigh the quiet whispers
against the loud insistence of now.

And when the answer finally unfolds,
it is not a single line but a tapestry—
each “which” a stitch, each decision a hue,
woven together into the pattern of us.