Fluid Truth

The sun plays hide-and-seek in leaves,  

light dappling where I first see it—  

a curl of motion, soft as silk.  

The snake is barely real,  

a whisper against the stone's shoulder,  

its tongue a secret, mid-story,  

paused in the breath of stillness.  

It twists, as twilight does,  

a body folding into shadow-shape,  

leaving warmth like a fingerprint.  

It’s gone before my eyes remember  

how to follow it,  

and the earth feels empty again.  

But my body stirs in the absence,  

as if called to wake, to want.  

The ache hums quiet, ancient, primal,  

to move as it moves: patient,  

without edges, without apology.  

One day, I whisper to the stone,  

I may become that fluid truth.