Logan's Ledger on Life

I came to you in the hour before dawn,
when the world is neither night nor day,
when the wind carries the breath of old rivers
that once cut through stone to make a way.

You knew my voice, though we had never met.
It was the sound a seed makes in the dark,
splitting its own skin to find a kingdom
it has never seen but somehow remembers.

I spoke no name.
Names are cages,
and I have crossed deserts where every name burned to ash.
For I have worn many names —
each one a window,
but never the whole house.
Each name honored only a portion
of what and who I truly am.

The hills bent their spines beneath my feet,
the cedars leaned close to eavesdrop,
and even the air refused to move
until you answered.

I told you of a mirror that cannot break,
though storms have thrown mountains against it.
Look long enough and it shows not your face
but the shape you were before the world named you.

I told you of a door that waits without latch or hinge,
a door that opens only to the one
who dares to knock with empty hands.

I told you of a hunger
that no harvest under the sun can fill —
a hunger that feeds on finding
and is only satisfied
when the search itself becomes the feast.

You reached for me —
but touched only your own hand,
the one you have carried since birth
yet never truly held.

Still, I am not far.
I am the shadow between your heartbeat and your breath.
And you know who I am,
for you have been searching for me
your entire life.