Nature Doesn’t Ask to Be Understood

Nature does not speak in sentences.

It speaks in pauses—

the kind that slow your breathing

before you notice you were rushing at all.

The trees never explain themselves.

They stand anyway.

Rooted in storms,

faithful to the sky,

practicing patience longer

than human history remembers how.

Rivers do not argue with stones.

They learn their shape through resistance,

turning obstacles into direction,

proving that persistence

can be softer than force

and still arrive.

The sun rises without permission,

gold spilling over mistakes,

offering warmth equally

to the broken fence,

the wildflower,

and the hand that almost gave up yesterday.

Nature doesn’t hurry grief.

Leaves fall when they’re ready.

Seeds sleep without guilt.

Even winter is not failure—

it is rest disguised as silence.

When I walk among open fields,

my thoughts lose their sharp edges.

Problems shrink to human size.

I remember I am not behind—

I am simply moving

at the speed of becoming.

Nature never demands productivity.

It only asks presence.

To listen.

To belong without owning.

To remember that growth

is not loud—

it is steady,

and it is alive.