The Uncurated Wild

The sky does not apologize for its grey,

nor do the pines ask permission to lean.

There is a bruised sort of gold in the decay

of a forest floor that has never been clean.

​We spend our days measuring the light,

trying to bottle the scent of the rain,

while the moss maps the stones in the dead of the night,

unbothered by ego, unburdened by gain.

​Watch how the river carves bone out of rock,

a slow-motion prayer of water and grit.

It doesn’t keep time by the strike of a clock;

it simply flows through the middle of it.

​There is a nectar in the silence of the high peaks,

where the air is too thin for a lie.

It is the only language the mountain speaks:

To be rooted, to reach, and to eventually die.

​So let the weeds break the asphalt apart,

let the salt bleach the wood on the shore.

Nature is not a museum of art—

It’s the pulse vibrating under the floor.