Cease becoming—
for even the river tires
of chasing its own reflection.
Begin to be—
like the butterfly,
who no longer dreams of flight,
but simply flies.
You have gathered enough skies
inside your waiting.
You have worn the ache
of almost.
Now—
unfurl.
Let the wind name you.
Let stillness prove
you were always wings.
And rest, at last,
in the still truth of “I am free—”
For all incoming and outgoing messages will be…
