Magnolia Hollow

I came upon a trembling light,

though whether by dream or recollection I cannot tell.

It lingered where shadow wove itself to silence,

and the air bent low, listening for something half-divine.

No wind moved, yet the branches shivered,

their leaves whispering like tongues long stilled.

A pallor rested there, faint as the breath of memory,

and I felt within it the echo of a thought

that once was prayer, now worn to longing.

The earth beneath was tender,

as though it had kept too many secrets.

I thought to draw nearer,

but each step fell through an older hour,

where time was not a river, but a wound unhealed.

There was no flame, yet the dark was not complete.

Something remembered light,

as a heart might remember kindness

after the hand that gave it is gone.

It knew me, or what was left of knowing.

It murmured of what was promised and never kept,

and of names spoken once in faith,

then buried beneath the hush of years.

In that place, even silence had weight.

And though I turned away,

it followed, patient as guilt,

softly shining where my shadow knelt,

as if waiting for the courage to be seen.