The Sky the Fireflies Return To

 I am not the one who runs.

The wind does that for me

pulling strands of my hair

like golden copper silk

through sun-split trees,

spinning stories

only leaves remember.

Let the fireflies chase light

as it fades into dusk,

let the butterflies

turn their hunger toward blooms

that have only just opened.

They do not wait

they move,

as they must.

But I..

I stay.

I am the still place

where roots dream of water.

Where stones hold warmth

long after the sun forgets them.

Above,

crows split the sky with their calling

not cries,

but declarations.

They chase thunder

not to catch it,

but to dance inside the storm

like those who remember

what power feels like

when it’s earned.

I have known such storms.

I have held my shape

as rain carved down my spine

and lightning stitched stories

into my silence.

And though the dream returns..

Yes, that dream..

The one I carry tucked

beneath rib and shoulder,

woven into the copper threads

of memory and maybe

I do not unravel for it.

It visits.

Soft as moth wings.

Warm as iron left in sun.

It brushes my skin

like a truth too early

for words.

And still,

I do not reach.

Let the heron skim the river’s skin

like a whisper.

Let the eagle race the clouds

for one more chance

to kiss the rain.

Even they know

the sky is always there,

even when unseen.

I am that sky.

Not hollow.

Not waiting.

Just vast..

and full of things

that do not need names

to be real.

If someone returns,

it is not to find

what has waited,

but to finally recognize

what never moved.

I am the place

the fireflies come back to,

when all the chasing is done.