but rivers—braiding currents,

threads of silt and light,

each one pulling the other closer to the sea.

What is art if not a tide rising?

Your voice strikes a chord,

a single note that echoes,

mine becomes the harmony—

and somewhere between the two,

the earth hums its agreement.

The loom of our connection

is made of unexpected strands:

conflict softens to understanding,

pain becomes fertile soil,

and what blooms between us

is a language spoken by more than mouths.

This is not individual glory.

It is the ferocity of roots breaking stone,

the persistence of rain carving canyons.

Care is not fragile—it is a rebellion.

Together, we stitch the world back

into a shape that holds us all.