Threshold of Breath

"Every path leans forward, waiting to see if you will follow."

The earth exhales,

and the trees lean closer,

their branches whispering

like elders at a secret gate.

Gravel shivers—

each stone a throat

humming beneath my step,

reminding me the ground is not still,

only patient.

The wind does not pass—

it presses its palm to my chest,

steady, insistent,

as though to say: wait—

the way ahead is watching.

Even the sky has thinned,

its light drawn sharp,

a blade laid quietly

across the path.

I know the road’s intent:

not to carry me,

but to release me.