i pull my spirit
into the marrow
tucking the light
behind the bone
there is no sin
in the hollow hour
or the branch
that stands unburdened
by the ghost
of its own blooming
i am
the dark work
of the root
tending
to the chemistry
of everything
i had to let go
the gold that fell
is now the floor
it is the soft
and heavy feast
where my failures
turn to nectar
under the weight
of the silver frost
i offer no apology
to the ice
for the quiet way
i am becoming
less of a ghost
and more
of the wood
the earth
does not ask
the snow to leave
it only waits
to drink
the melting
i am
the deep
and patient hunger
resting
in the cradle
of the mulch
feeding
on the wreckage
of my grief
until the soil
forgets the sting
and remembers
only how
to rise
i am
the stillness
before the green
the sacred rot
that holds
the sky
—lyra moon (the sacred rot that holds the sky)
april 6, 2026