The Descent

Even the garden stayed silent.

The trees—ancient sentinels—

stood rooted,

knowing more than they could say.

The wind no longer moved the branches.

Leaves refused their whispers.

The earth held its breath—

waiting.

He descended,

drawn into the hush

like a moth to a hidden flame.

But he was not afraid.

Shadows thickened.

The air grew too heavy

for song.

In the distance, an iris bloomed,

its petals glistening with ancient light—

a wisdom to be carried through the storm.

The mountain streams stopped their singing.

The wind no longer called his name.

Even Tom Bombadil, had he been near,

would not have danced.

Yet the trees did not bow to the dark.

They stood, unmoved,

bearing witness to the weight of loss.

And in the moment of his fall,

the willows bent their arms toward him—

not to weep,

but to cradle,

to carry his soul gently to the deep.

Their silence was not surrender,

but stillness.

Stillness in the presence

of something eternal.