Why this sudden cessation of wind
that stops me mid-stride
like a green wall of silence—
a hush that halts the forest’s breath
and presses deep within myself?

Not the peace that surpasses all,
not the bold silence of being alive,
nor the breathing of a statue—
this silence is something else,
a waiting, a holding,
where leaves and tendrils
and the fecundity of life
linger in quiet suspense.

Birdsong threads the spaces,
seeding time with delicate light—
and I stand still,
caught between the breath of the world
and the hush inside.