the roots found me first
before i could ask them to
something green and old
pulled at the edges of my breath
and said
not yet
i don’t know how trees talk
only that they do
in the low hum
behind my ribs
in the slow creak
of branches that sound
like my own name
said gently
i am so tired
but the moss does not rush
and the oak does not explain itself
it simply
keeps
maybe that is enough
to keep
i am learning
to be rooted in air
to be almost
and still
the forest knows me
broken open
and calls it
beginning
—lyra moon (stillness is how the earth endures)
march 6, 2026