the root is reaching up to hold the seed
that dropped it
and the winter wood is burning with the heat
of summers it has not yet seen
we are the riverbed that carves the water
that is carving us away
bending like the reed that only stands
because it lets the heavy wind pass through
and everything we gather is a weight
we carry just to learn to drop
the fire does not look back to see the ash
it leaves behind
and yet the ash is dreaming of the spark
that woke it from the stone
we are the breath that enters the dark lung
and becomes the quiet world again
losing our names the way the morning mist
gives up its body to the white sky
until the traveler and the muddy road
are walking one another home
the eye cannot step back to see the eye
that does the seeing
and the hunter is the arrow is the deer
that bleeds into the snow
we are a thousand separate leaves that fall
from the same unspoken tree
dissolving into the soil we emerged from
before we ever knew to call it ground
and the final silence is the very note
the instrument was tuned to play
—lyra moon (you can’t harvest a field that’s already busy harvesting you)
june 23, 2026