lyra moon's poetry

breathe

i talk to trees
and tonight they are talking back

the flower moon rises full in scorpio
flowers and the underworld
blooming and unraveling
beauty and the unflinching dark

this is not a contradiction
this is the whole truth

you cannot have the flower
without the rot that fed it
scorpio knows this
beltane knows this
tonight so do you

breathe

the hawthorn speaks

i bloom once a year
and i do not apologize
for how completely i do it

the flower moon means nothing held back
full means this is what surviving the dark earned you

let yourself be full

the oak speaks

i went underground for months
you thought i was gone

i was becoming capable of this

she opens into the moonlight
without apology
without making herself smaller
so the flowering looks less extravagant

the flower moon rises every may and says
look what made it through

you made it through

breathe

the apple tree speaks in blossom

the flower moon says abundance is coming
she says the blossoming is the proof

not the fruit
not what you will eventually be useful for

the flower
right now
is enough

scorpio carries this
the most profound beauty
grows from the deepest dark

the flower and the underworld
were never opposites
they were always
the same truth wearing different faces

breathe deeper

the willow leans into her reflection

the flower moon makes everything visible
every blossom
every grief still composting beneath you
every tender new thing
you have not shown anyone yet

scorpio says look
the flower moon says
what you see is beautiful
even the parts you were going to hide

the elder speaks last

i have watched ten thousand flower moons rise
ten thousand witches standing at the crossing
between the death they survived
and the life they were afraid to claim

every time
the flower moon says the same thing

you did not endure all of that
to bloom quietly

be the whole flower
the extravagant impossible bloom
that grew from grief
and came out gorgeous

breathe

the forest speaks as one

what died in you was not wasted
it went into the ground
the ground gave it to the roots
the roots gave it to this

this flowering
this terrifying beautiful aliveness
you almost did not let yourself have

the flower moon is full in scorpio
on beltane
and she is blinding tonight for a reason

rise

bloom like you mean it

you survived the dark
to do exactly this

breathe

and flower

—lyra moon (the underworld given petals and permission)
may 1, 2026

there was a church
that smelled like candlewax and old certainty
and i was small inside it
carrying something no one had named for me yet

a man with god on his collar
saw what everyone else was trying to press flat
called it beautiful
and i thought
this is what it feels like to be found

he asked me what i wanted
who i wanted
what i imagined doing with my wanting
and i answered because someone was finally asking
because the cold outside had lasted my whole life

warmth can be a lie
the body does not know this
the body only knows
it was cold and then it wasn’t

first it was questions
then it was his hands guiding mine somewhere
i did not understand
then the somewhere became a lesson
then a habit
then a thing i could not find the edges of

he was an old man
and i was a child
and what he put in my hands
and then my mouth
and then the rest of me
was not god
though he said it was close to god
though he said god was pleased

i was glass
and he pressed too hard
and kept pressing
for years
until the pressing felt like weather
just the way things were

i think i pointed the way
for others who walked like me
soft-footed in a world of stone
and the guilt of that has roots
that go down past memory
past language
into something that just aches

he said god was watching
and god looked like him
and punishment looked like silence
so i became very good at silence

i built a boy out of borrowed parts
put him out front
let him take the weather
while i waited somewhere back and small
learning to breathe through a keyhole
learning to be no one
so no one would come looking

the man died
and took nothing with him
left all of it
right where i was standing

i am not who he made me
i want you to know that
i was already there
before he learned my name
the girl in me was not his to find
or keep
or use as a reason to come closer
she was mine

she has always been mine
and she survived
not because of what happened
but despite it
and despite it
and despite it again

—lyra moon (the boy was a shield, the girl was the whole time)
april 27, 2026

the roots reached up and caught my ankles
before i ever knew the word for what i was becoming

and i found my tongue in the rough skin of the oaks
where the sap moves like a slow and heavy secret through the dark

i was just a body in the hush
until the woods began to breathe back into me

and i saw that the earth is not a muffled thing
but a choir of ancient giants
speaking in a language made of shade and gravity

i stopped looking for gods in the clouds
when i found them standing tall and unbothered in the dirt
weaving a consciousness so vast
it makes our empires look like dust

it was the first time the world ever answered me back
and that vibration became the only law i cared to follow

a sudden crack in the concrete of my old life
where the magic finally pushed through to find the sun

and now i am just a part of the forest’s long and winding story
no longer a stranger
but a branch returning home
to the rhythm that has been waiting for me
since the very first seed split the world wide open

—lyra moon (learning the tongue of oak and gravity)
april 23, 2026

the giants of the wood whisper secrets
that the lone trunk is a dream of the light
below the moss and the fallen needles
where the soil holds its breath
a different truth gathers in the dark

to stand alone is to invite the gale
to break against the weight of the air
but down where the earth is heavy and warm
the reaching ends of every living thing
find the pulse of another

they lace their fingers in the deep
weaving a floor that will not give way
until they are no longer many
but a single rhythmic heart
anchored against the shifting world

when the frost bites at the bark
the lifeblood moves through hidden veins
traveling from the tall to the small
sustained by the unseen grip of the neighbor
there is no shame in the leaning
only the grace of the grove
holding fast so that none shall fall
before the rising of the sun

—lyra moon (holding fast beneath the forest soil)
april 15, 2026

what holds us
is rarely the enormous

a body made of weather
learning to stay

warmth arranged along the spine
like proof of something
a blue light murmuring
at the edge of the room

outside a bush
is doing its slow work
each closed thing
pressing outward
into what it might become

freeze
fight
fly
chill
wonder
cry without knowing why

all of it
moving through you
the way a season does
without asking permission

somewhere the world turns
without your help

and still
something in you
keeps folding toward the light

the water is rough
i won’t pretend
but you have built
a life
that catches you

and when you reach
for one true thing

it arrives

not all at once
but one small
bright
connection
at a time

—lyra moon (one small bright connection at a time)
april 9, 2026

i pull my spirit
into the marrow

tucking the light
behind the bone

there is no sin
in the hollow hour

or the branch
that stands unburdened
by the ghost
of its own blooming

i am
the dark work
of the root

tending
to the chemistry
of everything
i had to let go

the gold that fell
is now the floor

it is the soft
and heavy feast

where my failures
turn to nectar

under the weight
of the silver frost

i offer no apology
to the ice

for the quiet way
i am becoming

less of a ghost
and more
of the wood

the earth
does not ask
the snow to leave

it only waits
to drink
the melting

i am
the deep
and patient hunger

resting
in the cradle
of the mulch

feeding
on the wreckage
of my grief

until the soil
forgets the sting

and remembers
only how
to rise

i am
the stillness
before the green

the sacred rot
that holds
the sky

—lyra moon (the sacred rot that holds the sky)
april 6, 2026

the rain is a heavy
silver quilt

but beneath the mud
a hunger stirs

i lay down
the weight
of my winter skin

the jagged stones
of old silence

and the salt
of everything
that broke

i give it all
to the soft
black rot

the ghosts
of who i used to be

melt into the belly
of the turning earth

nothing is wasted
in this holy dark

every bruise
becomes
a petal

every grief
becomes
a root

i am
the garden
and the grave

turning the ache
into the marrow

the bitter cold
into the greening
flame

what died in me
is now the food

for the wilder things
to come

the air is tasting
of the new light

the wind is uncurling
my tightest
leaves

i am rising
from the compost
of my heart

brave
and wet

and morning
born

—lyra moon (reclaiming the altar of my own decay)
april 5, 2026

what breaks open
is not always breaking

the thing underneath the tension
was always the thing

we name the wound
and miss the hand that made it

we argue the weather
when we mean the winter

every rupture has a root
older than the fight

and the root still wants water

even now

even after

to be known is not the same
as being agreed with

the ones worth keeping
will still be standing

when the words run out
go back

there is still something there
to tend​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

—lyra moon (listening beneath the noise of the rupture)
march 30, 2026

somewhere a river
refuses to apologize for resting in the shade

the old tree at the edge of the field
leans into wind for decades
and when the wind is quiet
it won’t fill the silence
with anything

we were taught
that the silent pauses between notes
aren’t at all musical
but they are

there are forces older than our busyness
older than the word for tired
that have been asking us
to put it down
long before we learned to pick so much up

what would fall
if you let your arms go soft
if you trusted the ground to hold
for just a handful of breaths

some bodies have forgotten
what safe feels like in stillness
not from weakness
but because the world made rest
a thing they had to earn
and the earning never ended

this isn’t a small thing
to lay the weight of your seeing down
to close the eyes and trust
the sounds around you to continue
without your supervision

but when we see it
something in us
recognizes it
the way a stream recognizes water

ease is contagious
this is the whole lesson

there is a kind of courage
that looks like nothing
from the outside

—lyra moon (unlearning the debt of rest)
march 24, 2026

look at us now
the storm has gone somewhere else
and we are still here
more ourselves than we have ever been

all those seasons of bending
were just the roots
learning how deep they needed to go

and now the light
is coming from a direction
we always suspected
and we are opening toward it
the way we could not
before

this is not becoming
this is finally
being found

we knew
the slow dark underneath
and the roots
knew all along

it was only ever
waiting for spring

—lyra moon (first draft of the untranslated self)
march 14, 2026