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.