The sun climbs slow through misty air,

and touches everything with gold.

I stand beneath the open sky

and let the warmth unfold.

The dew still clings to blades of grass,

the birds begin their song.

In quiet moments such as these,

I feel that I belong.

My feet are bare against the earth,

the soil is cool and deep.

I feel the pull of ancient things

that never truly sleep.

The trees know how to hold their ground

through every storm that comes.

I plant myself beside them now

and listen to their hums.

The river does not rush today.

It rests between the stones.

It mirrors back the clouded sky

in soft and silver tones.

I sit beside its patient edge

and breathe the quiet in.

There is no place I need to be.

There never really has been.

They grow without a plan in mind,

no rows, no garden beds.

Just color spilling through the field

in purples, whites, and reds.

Nobody planted them with care,

nobody told them where.

And still they bloom with everything—

just sunlight, rain, and air.

Inhale the morning,

exhale the night.

Let go of everything

that holds too tight.

The body knows the way

back home.

Just breathe,

and you are never alone.

Under silver light I tend

the garden no one sees.

Planting seeds of quietness

between the roots of trees.

The moon pours down like water here,

the shadows soften, bend.

In darkness there is growing still—

a beginning, not an end.

I took the long way back today,

the one that bends through cedar groves,

where sunlight barely finds the ground

and moss grows thick on fallen stones.

A creek was running somewhere near,

I heard it though I could not see.

It sang the way that water does—

without a thought of you or me.

The ferns uncurled along the path,

their spirals tracing ancient code.