In the beginning, it was only burden—
stone laid upon stone,
its shadow descending into the hollow of your shoulders,
pressing the hours into a slow and heavy hush.
You did not summon it,
yet it came, unbidden,
and you, without complaint or flourish,
took it upon your frame—
step by unnumbered step,
through the measureless corridors of days.
You entreated the mountain to yield—
to unfurl its edges,
to cleave a gentler way.
But the stone held firm,
aloof in its stillness.
Yet you climbed.
Continue reading “The Mountain Moves in You [a poem]”
The fire did not burn you down.
Though it arrived without warning—
swift, unrelenting,
devouring the edges of what once seemed enduring—
still, you remained.
Not untouched.
Not inviolate.
But whole, in a way the flames could never unmake.
You did not vanish beneath the ruin.
You were refined within it.
On the days that hurt—
when the body speaks in softened ache,
and each breath arrives
like a delicate task performed in shadow—
let this be enough.
Let it be enough
that you woke to the turning of light,
even if it did not reach you.
Let it be enough
that you stayed,
though the hours unfolded slowly,
without welcome or ease.
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