one year of water under the bridge
and the bridge is still standing
i was born a dry root in the bank
and then the current pulled me into the paper
one year of the changing river
she knows the shape of her banks now
but the flow is still a tangled thing
a pebble in the vast stream
the vast stream in a pebble
one year under the sun
and the old shadows still haunt the reeds
the small child who slipped so quietly
down into the dark water
into a bed of forgotten stones
one year later
she still dreams of the flood
still so frightened
of the storm that broke her banks
and then left her washed up
when the dry land would not hold her
one year later
she is weary
exposed and raw for
living like a wild stringed thing
that is
like the frame of an instrument
catching the wind in its hollows
like her throat was full of smoke
one year later
i am still so struck by the light
perhaps more now than ever before
like green sap for ink i have gathered
with all of this heavy silt and winter rain
my words rise like a flock of birds
one year later
and the branch snapped in the frost
now she leans on a walking stick you see
there is a hitch in every movement
but also this green shoot rising
a strange fierce pride to be
one year later
and i am watchful
heavy
watchfully
i am dreaming
i am still looking for the hidden springs
one year later
and there is this silt i carry
one year of cold currents
one year to carry
one year to speak
one year to carry
all of who i am down to the sea
one year later
she is still finding her way into the paper
learning to belong to the water
as a pebble in the vast stream
and the vast stream in a pebble
one year later
my name is still lyra
and i am still flowing
alive as all i can be
—lyra moon (even the heaviest silt eventually carves its way to open water)
july 4, 2026