The Wild

The ground remembers us before we learn its name,

soft soil cradling footsteps like they belong—

a tether, perhaps, to something older, something

that speaks in roots and wind-tangled songs.

The air, restless and alive, folds itself into the shape of meaning,

as if listening for the echoes of a long-forgotten hymn.

It moves differently here—heavy with intent,

a conductor for moments too fleeting to pin.

But then, there’s the shift—

a pause in the script, where everything tilts.

The sun splits its gold into uncountable threads,

and time itself stumbles over its weight.

We stand at the brink of the unseen,

hearts folding like paper cranes—delicate, unsteady—

witnesses to the kind of stillness that burns quietly,

like a lantern placed in a field of dreams left untended.

And yet, beneath all this, the pulse remains,

carving its rhythm into the cracks of the world.

It teaches us not to hold too tightly,

to let the moments slip through like sand.

The light will lean into shadows. The earth will bend.

Our steps will scatter but leave their gentle ghosts.

We are a part of this endless unraveling,

both fleeting and infinite, lost and found.