we left the gates unlatched
inviting the wider woods into our soil
knowing the wind belongs to no one
but you brought the heavy weather of her hillside
straight into the small grove where i sleep
flooding the roots until the ground became a marsh
and my quiet places were crowded with her ghosts
i asked for a brief frost
just enough time for the water to settle back into the stone
but you shook the branches
and blamed my hands for the falling leaves
then the sudden iron struck the noon
a careless shadow across the clearing
while the crows watched from the hemlocks
as if i were the one rewriting the map of our forest
now you are out on the high ridges
and i am standing in the clearing
watching the sky turn the color of wet slate
listening to the silence of the wood
and wondering how much of my own growth
was tangled up in yours
—lyra moon (wet slate sky, unspooling roots)
june 17, 2026