"When the Dragonfly Stayed"
for Star, under the watch of the wolf moon

I drifted in silence, oar brushing the skin of the river,
the world hushed—
just the breath of water
and my own pulse echoing through July’s bones.

And then,
you came.

Not as thunder,
not as sign or storm—
but small, winged stillness,
landing like a prayer on my knee.

You didn’t flinch.
You didn’t flee.
You simply stayed.

As if my body knew peace.
As if the wild knew I was safe.
As if I, too, belonged to the river
and had nothing to prove.

We watched each other,
you and I—
me, aching with things I couldn’t name,
you, a brief god in green lace
carrying the light
like it was no burden at all.

And for that moment,
the war inside me fell asleep.

When you left,
I didn’t cry.
I just whispered thank you
to the sky,
and paddled on
a little more whole
than before you came.