i wanted a life that tasted like elderberries in the early thaw
but the market aisle is just a cold and gilded hive
where we trade our wild inheritance for a handful of ash
and i am standing here with a palm full of paper ghosts
trying to weave an altar out of things i merely bought
while the ancient woods outside are weeping into the dark
my partner brings me roots heavy with the damp black earth
and i look at them like they are verses pulled from the deep
because my fingers only know the flat click of glass
never how to call the rain never how to quiet the hive
we swore we would be the ones to wake the sleeping land
but we are just drowning our spirits in porcelain cups
and mapping the eclipse from behind a glowing screen
they want us to believe the great wound is too vast to heal
that you need a ledger of numbers to understand the rot
but the magic is simpler than the moss upon the stone
they only want to make the breathing so heavy and so thin
that we forget how to weave our roots together in the dark
all we ever wanted was the holy hum of a long rain
the scent of rosemary browning in a heavy iron pot
and a threshold where the wolf and the deer can rest
just the slow quiet grace of tangling our vines together
while the rest of the world burns down to the clay
—lyra moon (we bought the cage because we liked the color of the bars)
july 8, 2026