Petals on the Quiet Stream

The morning breathes with gentle hush,

a silence folded in pale gold.

Petals loosen from the branches,

soft messengers of impermanence,

floating freely into the waiting stream.

The water carries them,

not hurried, not lost,

but joined with currents older than memory.

Each ripple writes a fleeting hymn,

a scripture of circles dissolving into light.

We are like these blossoms—

fragile, luminous, passing.

Our days fall gently,

and yet they feed the endless river,

becoming part of its song.

In this stillness we remember:

there is beauty in release,

there is grace in being carried,

and in every drifting petal

the whole universe breathes again.