I
Lately, I have questioned the shadow of virtues—
whether they root themselves in me,
whether their weave is whole or frayed.
I know I am not of the bitter soil,
nor a bearer of poisoned fruit.
But what is virtue if not tangled?
What is flaw if not a wayward vine?
II
I have been told:
“You take too much of the air,
you leave none for the Others.”
Accusations, braided into wind:
You dominate.
You hoard the word.
You eclipse the breath of others.
III
I reply:
I do not silence the murmurs,
but how can I know their weight
if they never press upon me?
The word is my tool of gathering,
my field of learning,
its abundance not a crime.
IV
Still, why does their quiet shift,
their gaze fold into shadows?
Does my voice cut the fragile web
where their truths might dwell?
V
I turn inward, folding back the sails.
Perhaps the flaw is not the voice,
but the rhythm of its tide.
I will reset, trace a line backward—
to a time before the loom unraveled.
VI
The writer in me knows the soil.
Knows the silence, the hum of roots.
Words will spill onto the page,
not into the air’s restless fire.
VII
Let them ask,
and I will give—
not before, not unbidden.
The circle must hold,
the fragments must speak.
