A boy sits beneath the tree,
boiling water—wild and free.
A spark escapes—the forest sighs,
as fire leaps to kiss the skies.

Sequoia longs for flame’s release,
its seeds locked tight find no peace.
Ash and rain—a bitter blend—
from death, new roots of life descend.

But fierce is fire—it does not choose.
It births the tree, but takes the youth.
The boy who lit the dark with light
was swallowed by the blaze that night.

The river black will soon run clear,
saplings rise where the boy sat near.
His flame made life—the forest breathes,
his soul now sown among the leaves.

Life and death—a breath, a stream,
not loss, but change within the dream.
The flame does not lament nor grieve—
it burns, it gives, then takes its leave.

What sings the violin?
What moves the wind to chant?
No player, only playing—
no want, no can’t.

The high, the low, the broken note,
the cry that cracks the air—
all rise from the same unheard hum
that has no name to bear.

You are not the voice,
nor the hand that strums the wire.
You are the space between the chords,
the stillness behind fire.

Call it grief, call it grace,
call it fierce or fair—
every note is emptiness
dressing itself in air.

So let the music have its way,
its thunder, hush, or cry.
What hears the song was never born,
and never has to die.

What we did not see
From the dark fathom
Now a moment in time
Survived as proof
We can survive

“I don’t say sorry
and I don’t tell lies.”

Two weeks later...
“I’m sorry for lying.”