Every purest element in life reminds me of you
cause I know you feel the magic too
The moon, stars, warmth of a gentle sun
sound of the wind, trees
those special spots in the forest where we run.

L.C.

I'm coming back as a tree
I could leave now
For all I care

The tree is an Ash
Sturdily bends in
In the sharpest winter

Breezes blows the boughs
The waves from the Pacific Ocean
Are jealous of her cadence

I'll take my leave now
I've seen all I need to
When you hear the wind look up

I've returned
Rooted, alive, without a care
Let the cages of birds freely fly to me.

Wind drifting through grass
At my feet, it stops and moans
Wind breaks- moaning ends

A leaf finally falls, with path is guided by the wind.
Neither can it go far away, nor near the tree.

An apple doesn't fall far from a tree.
And I assume the leaf is jealous for it only goes where the gale lets it be.

With my head rested
against the shoulder
that sits between each breath
between each little heart beat

With my head rested
against the wind
that flows between
the inhales and exhales
of this little life

You used to be bold

Now you just sit there and mourn and you weep
Unfulfilled
Hasn't enough of your time been lost?
Eaten up by mites, clearly mightier than you
And ghosts
Hovering over your shoulder
Greying your eyes and smothering your heart
And for what?
Because of how unlucky you once were?
Or how you refused luck as it felt unknown


I'll say

It's easy to linger in the same halls
Cozy to not have to master
The strength to look up
Up there
Where you haven't been before
You don't know what the weather's like

Scary to think the wind could be stronger
Than your will to survive

Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,

but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.

A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.

And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.

Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:

You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.

Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.

Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.

Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.

She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed

She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.

She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.

Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.

Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.

Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.

Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.

She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.

And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel

the quiet echo
of someone still with her.