13h
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.
