sit on the bank where the ground is cold and damp
and watch how the current doesn’t fight the gray stone
it simply bends and moves around what won’t yield
for years you stood in the cold water up to your knees
straining your arms to hold back the rushing tide
trying to scoop the wild water into a cracked clay pot
your muscles aching under the weight of something that could never be contained
your fingers white and locked tight around a shape that kept slipping away
your clothes soaked through while the river just kept running its own path
you were so afraid that if you opened your fingers
the water would disappear entirely and leave only dry dust
so you held on until your thumbs went numb
until your chest burned from holding a breath that never ended
spending every ounce of your strength trying to force the river to be still
put down the clay pot
let it sink to the dark mud at the bottom
let the water spill over the edges and return to itself
let the stone be hard and let the river be wild
look down at your raw soaked hands now
feel the air touch the skin of your open palm
the water washes clean and the long warmth slowly returns to your skin
the heavy tide moves past, indifferent to how tightly you used to hold it
the lungs fill completely on their own
the ground beneath you is firm and real
you sit on the bank and watch the river go
you are already home
—lyra moon (what was never yours to keep was never yours to lose)
september 8, 2026