The Way the Earth Breathes

I woke before the sun,

not for any reason

just because the light slipped through the blinds.

Outside, the trees were already busy,

holding conversations in rustles and hushes,

and a crow shouted something urgent

that only he seemed to know the answer to.

I took my coffee to the porch,

barefoot,

because some mornings ask for feet

to meet the ground,

for soles to remember

they came from soil.

A spider had woven a cathedral

between the railing and the rosebush

I nearly destroyed it with my distracted hand

but paused,

and she stayed still,

like she was praying

I wouldn’t.

There’s something so painfully alive

in the way leaves tremble

when no one’s watching,

or how a stream

can mirror the sky

better than we do each other.

And I thought

maybe nature isn’t some distant beauty

we escape to,

but the quiet persistence

of being part of something

that keeps choosing

to grow

anyway.

A dandelion cracked the concrete

beside the driveway.

I almost pulled it,

but left it there.

It looked like hope.