Study My Storms

I see them,

gathering their baskets

at the edge of my forest,

pretending they discovered this place themselves.

They pluck at petals I left behind,

turning them over like rare treasures,

as if holding something I touched

might somehow make them bloom too.

I almost want to warn them 

this light isn’t grown in tame gardens.

It came from roots that split stone,

from rivers that carved their own paths,

from storms that left me standing

when the trees around me fell.

But instead, I smile.

Let them collect what they can carry.

Let them hold up my feathers,

my seeds,

my fragments of twilight

and call them their own.

I know where the nest is.

I know where the roots run deep.

And I know they’ll never find the marrow

where the fire actually lives.

I don’t write for them anyway.

I don’t lace my words

in tangled technical vines

just to prove I know their names.

I write like rain,

falling where it needs to fall,

slipping through walls,

drinking deep into places

that ache to be seen.

That’s where my craft lives 

in speaking to all who listen,

in making the wild accessible

without caging it.

And isn’t that the real intelligence?

Not building fences,

but opening doors.

Sometimes I see them try harder,

fanning themselves with borrowed leaves,

spinning storms from seeds I dropped

without thinking twice.

The twilight I described

becomes their backdrop,

my brushstrokes repainted

onto their canvas,

my words reborn

as if they were never mine.

It used to sting,

but now it makes me laugh.

Because when wildfires move,

they leave sparks behind,

and if they want to gather them,

let them burn their hands trying.

I’m not worried about losing anything

to those who follow my footprints.

You can’t catch the wind.

You can’t bottle the sea.

You can’t pull the sun

out of its orbit

just by naming the light.

They can study my storms

and still never predict my thunder.

They can scatter through my forests

and never touch the roots.

And they can echo my words

until their throats turn raw

and still never carry my voice.

Let them write,

let them twist,

let them chase me through shadows

while I stand on ridgelines,

eyes turned toward the horizon.

Because I am not slowing down

for anyone trailing behind.

I move like riverwater,

finding paths they don’t know exist.

I grow like wildflowers in cracks

they can’t see until it’s too late.

And when I set my fire to the earth,

I don’t ask permission.

I burn whole skies

and rebuild them

before they even notice the shift.

So let them keep gathering scraps

from the edges of my storms.

I’ll be here,

in the heart of the wild,

laughing soft

as they try to catch my wind

with their empty hands.