the rain is a heavy
silver quilt
but beneath the mud
a hunger stirs
i lay down
the weight
of my winter skin
the jagged stones
of old silence
and the salt
of everything
that broke
i give it all
to the soft
black rot
the ghosts
of who i used to be
melt into the belly
of the turning earth
nothing is wasted
in this holy dark
every bruise
becomes
a petal
every grief
becomes
a root
i am
the garden
and the grave
turning the ache
into the marrow
the bitter cold
into the greening
flame
what died in me
is now the food
for the wilder things
to come
the air is tasting
of the new light
the wind is uncurling
my tightest
leaves
i am rising
from the compost
of my heart
brave
and wet
and morning
born
—lyra moon (reclaiming the altar of my own decay)
april 5, 2026