Mar 3
Lilac hush
earth, half-waking,
baroque birdsong.
Moss curls ,
dew beads on nettle’s tongue
small, glassy prayers.
wind
silk-handed seamstress
stitches light into every leaf,
veiling the world
breath and bloom.
Bones of old trees cradle the sun’s milk,
wildflowers nestle in their ribs
what dies here, lives softer.
river, translucent and slow,
spills silver veins , the skin of the valley
a quiet pulse beneath the green.
Somewhere between sky and soil,
we become the silence
lungs folding into pollen-laden air,
fingertips brushing the hem of forever.
Nothing belongs.
Nothing is apart.
In the meantime,
the world remakes itself
petal by petal, wing by wing
and we, fragile passengers,
are simply learning how to listen.
earth, half-waking,
baroque birdsong.
Moss curls ,
dew beads on nettle’s tongue
small, glassy prayers.
wind
silk-handed seamstress
stitches light into every leaf,
veiling the world
breath and bloom.
Bones of old trees cradle the sun’s milk,
wildflowers nestle in their ribs
what dies here, lives softer.
river, translucent and slow,
spills silver veins , the skin of the valley
a quiet pulse beneath the green.
Somewhere between sky and soil,
we become the silence
lungs folding into pollen-laden air,
fingertips brushing the hem of forever.
Nothing belongs.
Nothing is apart.
In the meantime,
the world remakes itself
petal by petal, wing by wing
and we, fragile passengers,
are simply learning how to listen.
(16/F)
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
