The morning spills its quiet light,
And we interact, unnoticed by the world around us.
The sun rises in its familiar arc,
A golden thread weaving through the fabric of the day,
Yet we barely feel its warmth,
So used to its touch we forget to notice.
The trees stand as they always have,
Their leaves dancing in a soft wind,
Whispering secrets to the sky,
But we pass them without a glance,
Their stories as old as time,
Told in the sway of branches,
In the rhythm of seasons turning.
The earth hums beneath our feet,
A pulse we cannot hear,
But one that carries us,
Invisible, like the air that fills our lungs,
Silent, but essential,
Lifting each step we take.
We walk, as if the ground beneath us
Has always been there,
As if it will always be,
And never once do we stop to wonder
What it means to be held so gently,
To be carried so softly by something
We cannot see or touch.
The sky, so vast, so wide,
Painted by the colors of the universe
Clouds drifting like slow strokes,
A canvas painted with our moments,
Each one a tiny sketch in the endless drawing.
We look up, but rarely stop to breathe it in,
The quiet expanse above our heads,
The stars, the moon, the drifting clouds,
All a part of us,
Yet we move as though we are separate,
As though the sky is not our own.
Time moves, too,
But we chase it,
Running faster, reaching for something
Just beyond our grasp,
When all along it has been here
In the spaces between thoughts,
In the spaces between breaths,
The fleeting seconds,
The quiet, steady rhythm of existence.
Life, it seems, is a series of soft moments,
A thousand little things that go unnoticed,
Like the sound of wind through grass,
Like the warmth of a morning that we’ve grown used to,
Like the way we touch the earth with our feet,
And never stop to thank it for holding us.
But somewhere, between the rush and the noise,
There is peace.
It is in the pause before the storm,
In the quiet song of leaves,
In the tender moment of a dawn we thought was ordinary,
But which, when we look closely,
Is the whole world unfolding.
