Your spine grows longer against the edge, replacing bone with rock. When it becomes too wide to reach across, and it is only you and your old tales wrapped in leather and leaves, find your anchor, your golden thread. Take with you every singing cell and every emptiness you gave a name to. Morning star catches a ride in your hair & all burning thought is ashes now, sinking under the wings of birds. Let yourself dance through the labyrinth of the beginning, mysterious child of the divine, water-breathing creature of the wind, head thrown back, bones confused by an unfamiliar angle. Muscles used to whiplash are most at home in constriction, & hold their ground until the song comes through, uprooted by the unexpected. Keep moving through, this transformation will cleanse stagnant blood in the mutable river, stones and branches offering vital bruises, skin prickling: alive. You lay old swords down in the inexhaustible flame at your fingertips, forging the in-between way. Dullness has no place here—you are carried by the call into the unknown, treading softly in the darkness, hands gripping lightly, so lightly, to the thread that guides you home.