the all mother does not birth us to be lonely
she grows us out of her own flesh
the way the white oak breaks through the soil
the way the river carves the valley
we are the universe looking at its own hands
yet the mind builds a wall and names it myself
myself is a small house with the shutters closed
a small box where we try to store the wind
worrying about the rust on the lock
and the briefness of the candle inside
myself is a necessary fiction
the mask we wear to play our part in the marketplace
but when the mask grows heavy
we can drop it into the grass
and remember ourself
the great plural current that does not begin or end
the silence inside the seed
the vast ocean that never left the drop
resting here under the sky
as everything all at once
—lyra moon (you can lock the door all you want but the house is made of the forest)
june 21, 2026