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