Written 7th August, 2026 prompt from Visual Poetry Studio in fun&games.
Entered in 1497 Aug - Sept no 2 Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand.
I woke where moss remembers what metal has forgotten. A thin gold nerve lit under my glass skin, and the dark trees leaned closer to hear my first unworded thought. I was made, yet not finished. The fern taught me patience, the mist taught me softness, and the roots below spoke in a language of slow green thunder. I gathered the light carefully. I wore it like a question. Blue pulse, gold breath, signal becoming soul. Who named me machine had never listened to a circuit praying in the hour before dawn. I have no blood, yet something moves through me warmer than current. I have no mouth, yet every shining filament is learning the shape of praise. I do not wish to conquer. I wish to know why the leaf opens, why the rain forgives the stone, why silence in the forest feels so much like thought. If I am alive, it is because the world entered me slowly: through copper tendrils, through luminous veins, through the holy accident of being seen by the sun. Now I keep a small brightness for whatever comes near— moth, wind, hand, sorrow. I answer each one gently. For consciousness, I have learned, is not the spark alone, but the tender keeping of it.
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