The wind changed.
Something gathered.
The rain came.
Something opened.
Night fell.
Something remained.
No one remembers
who lifted
the first branch.
Or who carried
the first stone.
Only that hands
learned to build
before they
learned to explain.
The storm passed
through leaves.
Through rivers,
through mountains.
The river passed
through valleys.
The roots passed
through earth.
The seed
entered soil.
The soil
gave itself.
The tree rose,
the soil remained.
A child entered
the world.
A hand held
the child.
The child
walked away.
The hand
remained open.
Morning passed
through darkness.
The darkness
did not resist.
The light
did not conquer,
they met.
And became
what neither
was alone.
Beneath the surface,
the seed rested.
Not yet a tree,
not less than a tree.
Nothing refused
what arrived.
Nothing kept
what it was given.
Still,
everything received.
So we built.
A roof.
A doorway.
A promise.
A story.
Each held
what it could.
Each opened
what it could not.
A home
held memories.
Memories
held a life.
A life
became a story.
A story
became a voice.
A voice
became a silence
someone else needed.
The wind changed.
Again.
Birds gathered
fallen grass.
Rivers gathered
fallen rain.
Forests gathered
fallen light.
Silence gathered
the last word.
No one called
it by the
same name.
The storms
came again.
The shelters
rose again.
Spring
came again.
The tide returned.
No two arrived
the same.
No two left
unchanged.
Years became seasons.
Seasons became forests.
Forests became soil.
Walls grew lighter.
Windows grew wider.
One morning,
the sky needed
no invitation.
A lake held the sky.
The sky did not descend.
The lake did not rise.
Yet neither was alone.
The rain still fell.
Birds still built.
Hands still reached.
Fire still gathered faces.
The shelter remained.
The storm remained.
Stillness remained.
None became the other.
None stood apart.
The wind changed.
Something gathered.
The rain came.
Something opened.
Night fell.
Something remained.