Ah, the roots hum their hymns, the stones their secrets—how the land stitches time into soil, wind, and breath. A sacred arithmetic.

Veins of amber thread the soil,
where roots hum hymns of rain.
Their whispers coil in shadowed furrows,
a lullaby of cracked time.

Stone whispers secrets,
to the moss that bleeds green,
and the wind stitches tales
in the dust of barren year.

Each grain holds a parable—
of water’s marriage to earth,
of seeds that remember
the weight of winter’s womb.

—
*(A meditation on the land’s quiet arithmetic)*