the tree won’t grip the storm
it opens its hands and bends
this isn’t surrender
this is the whole secret
you can’t demand willingness
you can only become
someone worth leaning toward
the chick doesn’t need consent
from the shell
power isn’t what you hold
it is what moves
when you stop
clutching
—lyra moon (figuring out non-resistance)
march 11, 2026
sometimes i wonder if we’re ever the ones constructing
or just debris in someone else’s cycle
right now it feels like debris
scattered along currents we cannot name
tumbling through forces that neither ask nor care
and yet stardust remembers its origins
even broken fragments carry light
that once shone in galaxies
we’ll never see
destruction for one is construction for another
and the universe does not linger on fairness
it turns and turns again
carrying scars like constellations
that mark where endings became beginnings
perhaps debris is not loss
but a promise in disguise
waiting for winds to gather it
for time to teach it how to shimmer
for a new cycle to whisper
here you matter still
—lyra moon (index of unmeasured light)
march 10, 2026
somewhere
far from speeches and bright stages
a tree releases a leaf
no audience
no announcement
just the small courage
of letting go
the wind does not ask why
it only carries
all over the world
quiet endings are happening
a shoreline reshaping itself
a field turning its color
a bird lifting from a wire
because the sky has room for it
none of them call it loss
they call it movement
for a long time
many of us believe
that holding is the same thing as loving
we tighten our fingers
around the fragile glow
of something that mattered
a season
a gathering
a long shared effort
built out of laughter and stubborn hope
and for a while
the hands are exactly where they need to be
steady
tired
faithful
until one day
the body remembers
that love was never meant
to be a fist
it was always meant
to be an open palm
something that can hold warmth
for a while
and then
with gratitude
release it back into the world
this is how forests survive
how rivers keep singing
how human stories continue
long after the first voices grow quiet
someone steps forward
someone steps aside
the light keeps moving
not because anyone failed it
but because it was always alive
and living things
do not stay still
they travel
through one set of hands
into another
until the horizon itself
learns how to glow
—lyra moon (what passes through us stays)
march 9, 2026
when my heart went quiet
the only thing that stayed was underneath me
not leaves or wind
just the feeling of deep roots
holding the dark earth together
and somewhere inside that silence
a knowing
the trees were still keeping the world
so i didn’t have to
and it was enough
to follow the roots
back up into breath
—lyra moon (the soil remembers how to hold us)
march 7, 2026
the roots found me first
before i could ask them to
something green and old
pulled at the edges of my breath
and said
not yet
i don’t know how trees talk
only that they do
in the low hum
behind my ribs
in the slow creak
of branches that sound
like my own name
said gently
i am so tired
but the moss does not rush
and the oak does not explain itself
it simply
keeps
maybe that is enough
to keep
i am learning
to be rooted in air
to be almost
and still
the forest knows me
broken open
and calls it
beginning
—lyra moon (stillness is how the earth endures)
march 6, 2026
the world taught me its lesson with both hands around my throat
i swallowed the quiet like medicine
and found it tasted like the only good thing
now the door stays closed
and the wolves i once called company
howl somewhere else outside
the body begs for bread but my ears are now deaf
i have made a church of this silence
and i am its last saint
canonized by no one
decomposing beautifully
into the floor
—lyra moon (some sanctuaries are built from what remains)
march 5, 2026
the lights are off
something burned through
everything behind my eyes
i used to move through rooms
now i am what the rooms move in me
my hands remember being mine
memory is the worst
like a child touching glass
that isnt there
i thought i was fire
i was just a wire
eating itself
from the inside
everything is very quiet now
the way a field is quiet
after something fell from the sky
and kept falling
into the ground
and kept falling
i am the thing that poisons the water
everything downstream of me
goes wrong
the water still moves
a bird drinks from it
and doesnt know
it should be afraid
but now you know
i am here
i think
i am still here
the way a house is here
after the fire
all the walls standing
pointing at the sky
holding nothing
keeping nothing out
i am here
—lyra moon (ruin is just another shape for standing)
march 1, 2026
the new moon
held no lantern for me
i earned my light the old way
on hands and knees
in appalachian mud
breathing ice into lungs
that forgot
they were made for this
the fire horse does not ask permission
to transform
she runs through the frozen thing
until it breaks open
until what was buried
under all that gray weight
surfaces
steaming
wild
and alive
six nights
i gave myself to the cold
and the cold gave me back
something it could not keep
something too stubborn to freeze
i fed my depression to the mountain
and the mountain consumed it
without mercy
traded my gray hollow aching
for frostbitten fingers
that can now
hold the whole world
six nights
under a moonless appalachian sky
wind that wanted to break me
mud that wanted to swallow me
and i rose anyway
i rose
every single morning
i rose
the horse that survives the mountain
does not trot
she runs
like she finally remembers
she was fire all along
and nothing
not the cold
not the dark
not the weight of it all
can ever take that from her now
—lyra moon (did you think the cold could keep it?)
february 17, 2026
the garden taught you about soil
now learn about air
all that observation
tracking light and shadow
made you fluent in roots
but roots are only half
above ground everything is exchange
the bee takes gives takes gives
the tree exhales what you breathe
rot releases spores that cross continents
nothing stays contained
you thought the work was in your hands
the choosing the clearing
but the garden was teaching surrender
wind decides where seeds land
rain comes when it comes
winter takes everything bare
you cannot control weather
cannot negotiate with seasons
only move with them
the butterfly at your native plant
has no concept of borders
will die a thousand miles from here
but what it carried will bloom there
results of your care echoing
in places you’ll never see
what if the point was never the garden
what if it was learning you are also weather
also seasons
also making things you won’t witness
your hands in soil taught you to trust dark
that germination happens underground
that best work stays invisible for months
that faith is planting in october
for may
now take that knowing past the walls
into what resists tending
relationships growing wild despite your care
losses that composted you
versions of yourself buried like bulbs
things you cannot fix or choose
you are both garden and tender
both seed and scattering
plant yourself badly if you must
trust that something reaches for light
even when you forget which way is up
the soil does its work
with or without your understanding
—lyra moon (what if you are also the weather?)
february 10, 2026
let me tell you the wonder
of the untended garden
at first it may seem neglected
abused even
but sit within its walls
sift your fingers through the soil
notice the quality
seeds hide in the depths
waiting in dormancy
for the right chance to bloom
there is vibrancy in the wildness
there is strength in the tenacity
you clear a seat
you remove a weed
one at a time
the work is not done in a day
but the more you explore
the more wonder you find
a plant you’ve never identified
a native that is medicinal
a dandelion in the cracks
showing its resiliency
its deep taproot bringing up nutrients
to share pollen with a bee
its leaves will decompose
enriching the soil
for the plants yet to come
the more you tend
the more you discover
the more you realize
the endless potential
there is a history here
a broken shovel
a decorative pot
you get to choose what to keep
and what to discard
your greatest tool is not your effort
it is observation
where does the light shine
what enriches the ecosystem around it
what is vulnerable and needs protection
what is valuable but needs pruning
your garden has been working this whole time
its beauty waiting to be revealed
the soil is rich
the diversity part resilient
and part dormant
this is your sanctuary
you decide what to celebrate
and what to compost
it all serves a purpose
even if we don’t know
what it is yet
weeds are not inherently bad
they tell us something
about the quality of the soil
and the environment around us
we choose how to best use them
you are a beautiful tender
and i cannot wait
to see what wonders you grow
—lyra moon (compost / celebrate / observe)
february 9, 2026
