The Living Earth

The forest breathes in centuries, deep and slow,

As sunlight spills between branches—golden rivers

That awaken the veins of the earth.

A boulder rests, crowned in emerald threads,

Its surface worn by patient time and soft embrace.

Each strand of moss holds an untold hymn,

A thousand voices woven in silence,

Rooted in shadows yet yearning for light.

Nearby, a stream murmurs over ancient stones,

Its laughter breaking open the heart of stillness.

But then—the wind shifts, the light bends.

The air grows heavy with an unspoken weight,

And the forest leans inward, as if listening.

Beneath my feet, the ground hums a pulse,

Faint but undeniable, a heartbeat of the world.

I kneel beside the boulder, tracing its curves,

Feeling the cool moss give way to warmth.

It is alive—not as we are,

But in ways more enduring, more profound.

And I wonder, in this moment of quiet awe,

If the earth, too, dreams of its place in the stars.