Sunlight and Smoke

I drifted for years

between constellations of memory,

a satellite lost

from the gravity of home.

Silence became my language.

The moon listened.

The stars marked my healing—

slow, patient

as sap thickening

in a wounded tree.

But now, I feel the pull of morning.

Something warm 

cracks me open,

spilling the yolk of myself,

reborn.

I am ready to glow again—

not reflected light,

but radiance born 

of wildfire and regrowth.

Like the eucalypt,

I bloom where I was burned,

green defying grey,

love returning

like sunlight through smoke.