Truth moves like water through cupped hands:
clear, certain, flowing smooth until
it fractures into rivulets, each
stream reflecting different light,
and weight.

What we label as
the singular splits
into versions: your truth, my truth, the truth
that shifts with seasons and the eye
of afternoon sun across memory’s
unreliable page.

Each truth that follows
holds one fragment:
not the whole, never the whole,
but enough light
to see by.

 

12/8/2025