Whispers of Time

In the field where fireflies dance,

I kneel, frayed denim touching the ground,

Above, an endless sky touches the tops of owned books. Listen.

Gushing colors no artist could confine,

Each hue a tale, sewn in clouds.

The creek hums softly; it is all very alive,

Gently, insistently chiseling rocks,

And the moss clings, green and age-old,

A heritage that reflects resilience over time,

To riding out the rush of every storm.

But then—

A gust unfurls the scene,

Leaves ascend like pieces of lost dreams,

Twisting upward, taken beyond the eye—

A motion of truth, barely there: all things must move.

These jeans I wear are torn, faded,

Lay eyes on seasons untold,

Just threads connecting now and then,

Between just below me solid ground and solid ground above me

And the waste of the unknown.