Tonight,
the river is
not water
but song,
its body unraveled silk,
golden-threaded murmurs,
spilling, spiraling,
drowning the hush
of the land in hymn,
in motion,
in breath.

Every ripple
a hand stretched toward dawn,
every hush
a heartbeat echoing through the soil,
unfastening morning
like a clasp at the throat of time.

Her body
Like a unwritten scripture,
Beauty beyond comparison
shifting verses,
shifting
a road carved by the hands
of the unseen,
soft fire licking the bellies
of unturned stones,
reed-thin prayers drift on high
rising to sky.

Each echoed note
A musical masterpiece
of her body a light sound-spun  through incantation,
whispering secrets to the root-veined hush,
where silence folds into bloom,
In a secret garden
known to none .

The wind
smears its fingerprints across the sky,
stains the horizon with blue spun from memory,
bows its head in reverence
to the aching dawn.

The wheat hums.
The river sighs.

Somewhere,
a blade of grass bends and sings.

Somewhere,
the breath of lovers writes
its own psalm in the dust-kissed hush
of a bridge where names,
hands, mouths, moments,
are carved into forever.

And oh, the clouds
burning alabaster, forgotten ghosts
exhale light,
let golden thread unspool in restless rivulets,
let carefully crafted prisms scatter
across the trembling skin of the world.

Making lines across the earth.

Every unturned stone
a story.

Every tree
a violin swaying and bowing to the wind.

Every feather and wing
unfolding like an unread letter,
written in the ink of all things unsaid.

Here,
even time drips honey
through the curve of the earth,
even the stars
are just myths waiting to be remembered,
even the sea
ancient, unsleeping mother
knows the melody of our unspoken longing.

The river opens
not like a wound
but like a mouth learning the first syllable of joy,
like a child pressed against the chest of the universe,
like hands unthreading the knots of night,
like your name,
unspoken yet known
in the hush of the wind.

And in this moment
where light devours shadow,
where the earth hums in the language of gold,
where the sun unstitches the silence of forgotten fields

we are not lost.

We are
becoming.

Something  
      greater,  

           that will find itself  
                within  
                     itself.