The Beauty of Memory

The wind hums an old familiar tune,

soft as a whisper through golden fields,

where time lingers in the rustling leaves,

folding memory into the arms of the earth.

Barefoot laughter once danced on this soil,

wild and weightless as dandelion seeds,

spinning stories into the open sky,

never fearing the reach of tomorrow.

Oh, the rivers that carried our youth—

silver ribbons unraveling beneath the moon,

mirroring dreams too bold for sleep,

too restless for the quiet of forgetting.

Faces blur like rain upon glass,

yet voices bloom in the hush of dusk,

stitched into the fabric of forever,

woven in echoes that refuse to fade.

Here, in the hush between heartbeats,

the past is not lost but luminous,

a light spilling through autumn branches,

where every leaf holds a name.

And though we walk forward, unbound by time,

we are stitched to the marrow of all we’ve been,

held by the hands of every yesterday,

carried gently into every tomorrow.