The Mirror of Creation

The river waited for me,

still as breath,

its surface dark as unbroken glass.

I bent above it,

seeking the spark,

the word,

the angel,

the throne—

all that had fled me.

And there it was.

Not stag,

not flame,

not god.

A face,

my own,

but veiled in light,

framed in shadow.

The eyes bore every star

I had chased across the sky.

The mouth held silence

older than the first voice.

The water quivered,

and the reflection rose.

It stepped from the river

clothed in night,

crowned in fire.

Its hands were mine.

Its gaze was mine.

Its hunger was mine.

And I understood:

the quarry was never fleeing.

It was waiting—

for me to see,

for me to follow

beyond the bow,

beyond the chase,

beyond the emptiness.

I touched the mirror-self,

and the river shattered.

Flame and silence poured into me.

I carried it home:

the divine I hunted,

the divine I became.