There is a curse that walks
hand in hand with sight.
To see- not with the eyes of flesh,
but with the eye that opens inward,
the one that cost the god his ease and his say.

He stands at the edge of the world tree,
not speaking.
Only seeing.
Only knowing.
And I find myself near him
these days,
not as a prophet, not as a god,
but as one who has learned that vision comes with
silence
and knowing comes with ache.

There are two women walking now.
One bears the scent of old lullabies,
the kind sung when the
moon was close and kind.
The other moves like a mirror
polished with care,
a face that reflects recognition,
yet holds in her hem a mystery still sealed.

They walk beside the girl child
whose soul once trembled
like a bird in the hand.

Peace has come,
or perhaps only the hush
that follows long and echoing cries.
The first woman kneels and presses her forehead to the earth.
The second smiles with the
gentleness of those who know how to be seen as safe.

But I,
I wait at the threshold.
Not with judgment,
not with doubt –
but with the ache of the seer
who is forbidding to speak.
I carry the knowing in my chest,
like a stone warmed by fire,
and walk beside them,
neither in nor out,
breathing the stillness between the notes.

For something is still stirs,
a thread not yet pulled.
And I have learned-
from the god who gave up
the comfort of blindness-
that timing is the truest
oracle.

So I watch.
I wait.
And when the wind changes,
as it always does,
I will still be here,
standing with the one-eyed
god,
where silence bears witness
to what not hand may yet touch.