fragments

shards of an infinite whole,
dreaming we are entire souls.
This breath, this fleeting thought,
a thin veil wrought between the heart
and the roaring sea it swims within.

The self —
a clever trick of mind’s design,
a mirror turned inward to assign
the flame a name it calls its own.
Yet fire burns everywhere:
in cedar roots that deeply delve,
in sparrow wings, in stars themselves
that have never heard our names.

We dwell behind walls
of want and fear,
hoarding light we hold so dear
as if it could be owned.
We bind our love
to familiar faces,
to voices that echo our own spaces —
and call this freedom.

But the bars are thin.
Step near,
feel them disappear
like mist beneath the rising sun.
Your name is not your own.
Your pulse belongs
to rivers’ songs,
to soil, to skies that never yearn
for anything in return.

Dissolve the circle,
let it expand
until it slips from every hand.
The wind does not choose
which leaf to carry;
the ocean does not tarry
for one wave over another.

What you are
is everything.
What you hold
is nothing.
And in this letting go,
you become free.