when they arrived
carrying their hunger backwards
you became
flame
four winter winds
tried to teach you
their name
but you were already
speaking fire
the kind
that answers back
they thought
you were a door
but you were
the house
the one
they will never enter
the one
that stands
there is a way
birds scatter
when the sky forgets them
and a way
they return singing
having learned
that falling
always ends
in flight
they fled
from their own voices
made loud
some people
cannot survive
in the presence
of what they fear
cannot breathe
the same air
as truth
you have been
the candle
that thanks the wind
for the dance
every attempt
to diminish you
just clears
more space
for burning
staying
is the sharpest form
of winning
the body remembers
everything
as weather
but you are
the season
that comes after
both the seed
and the forest
it becomes
the thing
that was here first
and will be here
when the shadows
forget
how to find
their way home
—lyra moon (staying is the sharpest form of winning)
january 28, 2026