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