Whisper of the Meadow

The sun spills gold upon a waiting hill,
Each blade of grass breathes slow, alive, and still.
Soft wind, like hands unseen, caresses skin,
The breath of morning hums a peace within.
A shimmer lingers where the lake exhales,
Its mirrored face reflects the silent tales.
A single drop expands in silver rings,
As though the air itself has opened wings.
The scent of clover drifts, both wild and clean,
A gentle sweetness in the air between.
The sky reclines in robes of lucid blue,
While whispers pass where green and golden grew.
I hear the sparrow bend the hush with song,
Its notes remind my soul where I belong.
The world expands and contracts with my breath,
No fear, no time, no shadow left of death.
The warmth upon my chest feels like a vow,
The light and I exchange a sacred now.
Through eyelids half-asleep, the glow still streams,
It mingles softly with the drift of dreams.
My thoughts dissolve like mist upon the stone,
And what remains is stillness—mine alone.
The hum of being thrums beneath the clay,
The earth inhales with me, the same soft way.
Each heartbeat syncs with unseen cosmic tides,
Where pulse and starlight gently coincide.
I sense the fingers of the Source’s hand,
They move through wind and leaf and grain of sand.
The air tastes sweet—like apple skin and fire,
Calm built from loss, from longing, from desire.
The lake sighs once, the sound both near and deep,
Like heaven murmuring in mortal sleep.
Beneath my palms, the soil begins to hum,
It calls me home to what I will become.
Each sound a prayer, each ripple a reprieve,
I open wide, and all I do is breathe.
The morning stretches far, and I within,
No boundary now divides without from in.
The world turns slow, its burden newly shorn,
And I am peace—reborn, refined, reborn.

…

DCG