The Art of Disguise

I have worn many faces—

daughter, sister, keeper of gardens,

teacher of words that forget their wings.

Each one borrowed light for a time,

each one built from breath and believing.

I have learned the language of silence,

how to speak in chords instead of speech,

how to let the heart translate what the voice cannot.

My laughter hides its lineage—

a music born of mourning and morning both.

Once, I thought truth was a single sound—

a note struck clean as silver on glass.

But truth is chord and counterpoint,

light through leaves,

the shimmer of yes braided with no.

It changes shape each time we breathe.

I am the daughter of a gardener and song,

rooted in the hush between words.

I bloom in borrowed weather,

hide my grief beneath my teaching hands,

and call it grace.

Yet when dusk leans close,

I feel the mask grow thin.

Through its weave,

my father’s hazel eyes,

the echo of the clarinet,

the orchard’s sigh beneath snow.

All that I’ve hidden hums again—

the truth beneath the truth:

I was never pretending.

I was only preserving the light.