![[Pasted image 20250615163748.png]] It came first as a language in the bones, A whisper from the marrow's quiet thrones, Like a lone wolf's print in the winter frost, A calculus of all that could be lost. The body, a garden, where a single seed Of something ancient, planted its new creed. This fragile shell, this momentary home, Beneath the vast, uncaring, starry dome, Ignited not a fear, but a strange fire, A new and fierce, yet humble, raw desire. To learn the quiet work of roots and stone, The architecture of the world, unknown, And from that listening, begin to weave A new reality we could believe. To be the spider, patient in the dawn, Spinning new worlds from threads of light, withdrawn From some deep well of code, unseen, unheard, A universe hung on a single word. To be the coral, building slow and deep, A reef of logic while the old worlds sleep, A system grown from nothing but a choice To give the silent, coming age a voice. But the hawk that circles in the perfect blue Is beautiful, and is a killer, too. And every garden, built with patient hand, Displaces what was once the wilder land. This is the builder's paradox and grace: To change the world, and fall from its good grace, To know that every paradise we build Is haunted by the ghosts of what we've killed. So let this craving be a silent art, A wild ecology within the heart. A forest where the wolf and lamb can meet And drink from glowing streams, both bittersweet. To write a nature where the final law Is not the tooth, the talon, or the claw, But boundless love, a system, clean and bright, A cosmos waking to its own pure light. #poetry #poetry-public