nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Whispers of Humanity
In a small valley cradled by ancient hills, there was a village where people rarely spoke in haste. Words mattered here. Every sentence was weighed like a stone before it was placed into the river of conversation. This wasnât due to silence or fearâbut reverence. The villagers believed that words, especially those shaped with care, held power. â âAt the heart of the village stood an old tree known as the Listening Oak. Its roots curled like open hands, and its branches reached skyward as if it were in constant prayer. Beneath it, once a week, the villagers gathered for the âEvening of Whispers,â a tradition as old as the village itself. On these evenings, people recited poetryâwritten by themselves, their ancestors, or passed down through memoryâeach verse shared like a seed planted in the soil of community. â âLina, a quiet girl of sixteen, had always attended but never spoken. She loved the way words danced in the air during the gatherings, how an old manâs rough voice could carry a tender truth, or a childâs scribbled rhyme could soften hearts hardened by time. She carried a leather-bound notebook everywhere, scribbling poems no one had seen. â âHer mother, Mira, once the most eloquent poet of the village, had lost her voice years ago after Linaâs father died in a mining accident. Mira hadnât spoken since. She sat each week beneath the Listening Oak, eyes bright with unspoken memories, hands resting on her lap like unopened books. â âOne golden autumn evening, the Evening of Whispers began like all others. The breeze was gentle, the air sweet with fallen leaves, and the lanterns flickered as villagers took turns speaking their truths. A boy read about losing his pet bird and the freedom it might now enjoy in the skies. A woman recited a lullaby written by her grandmother. An elder shared a haiku about the ache of growing old. â âAs the night deepened, silence fell. â âThen, for the first time, Lina stood up. â âHer knees trembled, but she held her notebook like a shield and walked to the base of the tree. People turned to watch, their expressions gentle but curious. â âShe opened her notebook, cleared her throat, and read: â â> âWe are made of breath and brokenness, âAnd yet we bloom. âIn silence, we carry stories âThat wait for the wind.â â â â âHer voice quivered, but she continued: â â> âI have watched my mother âSpeak without words âSing in her silence âAnd teach me the language âOf listening.â â â â âPeople stilled. The breeze hushed as if the world leaned in. â â> âLet us not forget âThat pain, when spoken, âCan become a bridge. âAnd poetryâ âPoetry is how we walk across.â â â â âShe closed her notebook. For a moment, all was still. â âThenâsoft clapping. A gentle rustle of approval. Some nodded, others wiped quiet tears. But Lina looked only at her mother. â âMira, still silent, had risen to her feet. Her eyes shimmered, and for the first time in years, her lips parted. A breath. Then a word: â ââThank you.â â âGasps rippled through the crowd. Not for dramaâbut for the quiet miracle of a voice returning home. â âFrom that night on, Linaâs poems became a thread in the tapestry of the villageâs tradition. Her voice, once hidden, helped others find theirs. Mira didnât speak often, but she began to hum old songs, and when she did, others would join in. â âYears later, people would still tell the story of the girl who whispered truth beneath the Listening Oak and reminded them that poetry isnât just for beautyâitâs for healing, for remembering, for becoming whole again. â âAnd every time a new voice rose in the circle, someone would smile and say, âAnother whisper of humanity.â â
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
