we left the gates unlatched
inviting the wider woods into our soil
knowing the wind belongs to no one
but you brought the heavy weather of her hillside
straight into the small grove where i sleep
flooding the roots until the ground became a marsh
and my sheltered places were crowded with her weather
i asked for a brief frost
just enough time for the current to slow and settle
but you shook the branches
and blamed my hands for the falling leaves
then a shadow fell across the noon with no apology in it
while the crows watched from the hemlocks
as if i were the one rewriting the map of our forest
now you are out on the high ridges
and i am standing in the clearing
watching the sky turn the color of wet slate
listening to the wood hold its breath
and wondering how much of my own growth
had learned the shape of yours
—lyra moon (you read the rings by counting what was lost)
june 17, 2026