Where the Earth remembers
by Christabelxo
There is a language spoken by the wind,
one older than cities,
older than names,
older than the stories we tell ourselves.
It lives in the sway of tall grasses,
in rivers that never forget where they belong,
and in the quiet patience of mountains
that have watched centuries pass like clouds.
The morning arrives softly,
painting gold across the fields,
and for a moment,
the world feels untouched,
as though creation has just begun again.
The trees stand like ancient poets,
their branches heavy with unwritten verses.
The flowers bloom without applause,
offering their beauty freely
to anyone willing to notice.
Even the sky seems alive,
changing its colors like an artist
who never runs out of wonder.
And when evening comes,
the sun slips gently beyond the horizon,
leaving behind a trail of amber and rose.
The stars awaken one by one,
scattered across the darkness
like promises waiting to be kept.
Nature asks for nothing.
Yet it gives everything.
its beauty,
its peace,
its endless reminders
that growth can be slow,
that storms always pass,
and that there is grace
in simply becoming.
Perhaps that is why we return to it.
Because somewhere between the rustling leaves,
the singing rivers,
and the endless sky,
we remember that we, too,
are part of something beautiful.