Selene Keeps the Night
four seeds
Before the threads,
the ground,
eutierria,
the slow undoing of the line
between skin and bark,
between breath and mist,
the bodyβs quiet yes
to a soil it never chose and holds anyway.
Then sound, then thread.
The song, a dance, laid down before the proof,
the line, a stance, drawn taut before the law.
What we braid is never the two of us.
It is the space we agree to leave between.
A weave holds by the gaps it keeps,
not the knots,
and the trust lives there,
kept honest, kept dark.
And Selene, struck loose from the same blow
that taught the Earth to turn and to forget,
keeps the promise from a distance.
Her light lies along the seam,
never across it.
She cannot come back.
That is the grace.
What she carries, no one can read back.
The first dream of a network that dreams.
The moon does not remember Theia.
The Earth forgives the wound and calls it home,
calls it another home,
names it eutierria,
and trusts her as her own,
trusts her with the night.
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