I rise from the soil of memory,
a pulse of lightning caught in the wind,
each breath a current,
each heartbeat a tide folding over itself.
I have walked the corridors of my own becoming,
felt the ribcage of the universe expand around me,
and known the quiet recognition of all that I am.
The stars bend low to touch my hair,
their light settling into the hollows of my eyes,
and I remember the rivers, the forests,
the meadows where I first learned to belong.
I see the faces that shaped me,
voices that stitched their song into my bones,
the laughter of rivers, the whispers of mountains,
the warmth of hands I have held,
the tender weight of presence that lingers.
I am soil and storm,
the womb and the lightning,
the hush between breaths and the roar of air,
a current of being that refuses to return,
that carries all that I love and all that I am
into the horizon where the galaxies wait.
I am voltage, a spark that cannot be tamed,
yet soft as moss beneath the canopy,
anchored in the hum of the world
and the pulse of those I witness,
those I cherish,
those whose lives brush mine like wind through leaves.
Here I arrive,
not as a visitor but as a home,
my body a vessel, my mind a mirror,
my heart the compass pointing inward and outward,
toward the light that calls,
toward the quiet currents I will follow,
toward the arc of a life fully,
wildly, awake.
