Gravity of Unfinished Fire

From the remains of yesterday’s blaze
I lift myself,
like a clock rebuilt out of
half‑remembered heartbeats.
Ash teaches me its secret,
that endings behave like door hinges,
creaking open to rooms
no one knew were waiting.

The world exhales its quiet prophecy,
braiding time the way rivers
braid sunlight into their surface.

Everything hums,
a choir of forgotten metals
learning again how to shine.
I lean into that murmured promise,
letting it settle along my ribs
like migrating birds choosing rest.

Passion returns in slow thunder,
rolling through the hollows of me
like a cello bow drawn across
a bridge made of wind.

In that trembling,
another witness awakens,
a tiny moth tapping at the lamplight,
feeling the same subtle quake
of something being reborn.