“Your words root in the river’s breath—
where tides hum hymns of silver,
and earth cradles time, soft as lichen.
Here, we become meadow,
quiet as dew,
held by stone.”

Tides rise, they fall, they stitch the bank with silver thread,
while ferns exhale where shadows stretch and kneel instead.
You feel the earth in veins, a pulse both old and new,
as steadfast as the oaks—yet tender, too, like dew.

The current’s soft lament, a hymn of rippling vine,
unspools the day’s unwound thread; you’re still, undone, serene.
In this quiet alchemy, where air becomes to stone,
you learn to walk as grass—unhurried, deeply rooted, alone.