Thresholds

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

Invocation

Every element waits at its own gate—

earth in patience,

fire in memory,

water in song,

silence in truth—

each asking the same question:

Will you step through?

I. The Body of the Earth

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.

II. The Memory of Fire

The match waits,

its silence crowded with promise.

Even the dark bends closer,

hungry for a flicker.

Heat gathers in the marrow of air,

restless, trembling,

like a name about to be spoken.

Ash ghosts stir in the corners,

recalling the memory of blaze.

The shadows lean forward,

faces pressed to the threshold,

longing for their shape to return.

And then—

the spark leans forward,

knowing what it was made for:

to consume, to transfigure,

to write its hunger in light.

The flame remembers

all fires before it,

each bonfire, each candle,

each sun rising beyond the horizon.

It does not ask permission.

It was born to turn silence

into song.

III. The Hymn of Water

The ocean pauses

at the lip of its own body,

a gleam of salt trembling

before surrender.

Waves arch like backs

just before bowing,

each crest listening

for the signal of the moon.

The tide’s pulse falters—

then gathers,

the hush before a hymn.

Driftwood stiffens,

barnacles grip tighter,

even the gulls

wheel lower,

waiting for the pull.

The shore does not move,

but waits with open hands.

Sand grains shift

as if rehearsing departure,

ready to scatter

when the surge begins.

And I, standing there,

feel the sea within me

hold its own breath—

a vessel of salt and longing,

drawn by the same moon.

IV. The Silence Beyond Speech

All sound folds inward,

a bird’s cry cut short,

the leaves stilled mid-rumor.

Silence is not absence—

it is pressure,

a weight against the ribs,

a listening too vast for reply.

Even breath feels borrowed,

balanced on the edge

of vanishing.

Trees hold their syllables,

branches frozen mid-gesture.

The air thickens,

its invisible throat

swallowing every word

before it can form.

I stand at the center of this pause,

a witness to a language

older than sound,

carved in stillness,

waiting to break.

Here—

where earth, fire, water, and sky

have all leaned forward,

the silence parts like a veil,

and I understand:

the threshold was never the path,

never the flame,

never the tide,

never the sky.

It was always

the breath before,

the hush inside,

the eternal pause

asking only—

Will you follow?

Closing Seal

All things lean forward,

toward the eternal.