Whispers of the earth mend the soul’s fraying edges. Here, even the soil breathes. We learn to root without rushing into the light.

When the day has taught you too much noise,
take the road that grows quieter the longer you walk:
past the gate without a latch, past the thoughts without an answer,
until the edge of the street softens into the edge of a field.

There the wind speaks in the syllables of grass,
not a lecture, not a sentence, just a soft insistence,
like someone you trust, letting you be,
asking for nothing, offering everything.

Sit where a tree has learned patience.
Its bark is a story you can