A tree never
weeps at night.
The birds
   are coming—
Too eager,
Too heavy.
The grass
beneath
sleeps,
still and
silent.
The fruits are
surfacing,
slow and sweet.
It breaks down
at dawn—I see
geriatric leaves
falling,
In the middle
of everything.
A tree can’t
cry, instantly like
human with
freedom—
Only the leaves,
that endured
Too much,
fall on time.
They dry beneath
stars, and by morning,
crumble, golden
at the root.
The grass leans
inward,
Its blades curled
Like a listener
carrying the weight
of someone
else’s grief.
              
🌳🌳

The smallest things
in the world wait
to contribute—  
seeds of thoughts
pressed in my heart,
holding forests
in their sleep.
I see the hand still
clenched, in the crib
its neck craning
like a pigeon’s
over the ledge,
as if the whole
world is waiting
below.

Love demands
openings,
tender ruptures—
And I’m too raw
to receive them.
I hover myself
to keep
from falling—
Like blocks,
stacked in silence,
each part of me
resting on the next.
One wrong shift,
and I could unravel.
So my body
learned
not to split open
for want.

The sky was
cloaked
in gray.
the clouds
were weeping.
As I walked today,
tears began to
fall on me—
and they made
me fertile.
I saw golden leaves
lying crushed,
flattened
by footsteps
that never paused.
Nature often
held me,
gently even when
she grieves,
And I wondered—
If God had told us
That fallen things
were sacred,
Would we
have loved
them better?
Would we
have tread
more lightly?
Seen beauty in
their break?
Found grace
In letting go?
Would we
have stopped
Before the
bruised things—
Not out of pity,
But reverence?
On sharp stones
Lay orange
flowers,
Their sleep
just ending—
As if they were
still dreaming
Of the sun.
And in their quiet,
Something
inside me
softened, too—
A stillness,
A small bloom,
A reminder
That even
broken things
wake beautifully.

🌸🍁