Whispering Pines
The air is crisp with the promise of winter, but the earth hasn’t yet yielded to the frost. Bare feet press against soft, damp moss—each step grounding me in a world that feels alive despite the stillness. Pines tower above, their needles murmuring secrets to the wind. A faint scent of sap lingers, mingling with the earthy perfume of fallen leaves. My breath puffs into clouds, joining the mist that clings to the ground, curling like a shy spirit. Somewhere, a bird calls—a sound that cuts through the quiet, then dissolves. I close my eyes and let the weight of the world slip from my shoulders, surrendering to this sacred pause.
Years of storms echo in my chest, but here, beneath these ancient trees, I am reminded that chaos cannot last forever. There is beauty in the rebuilding, in the quiet rhythm of healing, in the gentle rustle of pine needles above.
needle whispers sing
branches cradle the still air—
I exhale the past
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