The Emerald Pulse
The morning wakes in a bruise of gold,
where the mist is a ghost on the clover's breath.
Listen: the soil is a riddle untold,
of roots that dance in the face of death.
It's a green so loud it rings like a bell,
vibrating deep in the hollow of the wrist,
a story the ancient mountains tell
through a veil of silver and river-mist.
A fiddle's bow biting into the string—sharp, resinous, and wild.
A sudden fracture of sunlight through a heavy rain, turning the hills into shimmering glass.
The cold, damp weight of a wool sweater and the electric hum of a crowded room.
Its not just a color; it's a fever of the spring, the snap of a Guinness, the smoke of the peat.
It's the heavy, melodic weight of the ring, and the thunder of boots on cobblestone Street.
The air is thick with the scent of the rain,
tasting the salt and the coming of light,
a celebration of joy carved out of pain,
burning emerald-bright through the heart of the night.
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