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White Lace Cascades
White lace cascades,
string beads of light
fall from a quiet sky.
There’s a soulful eye-gaze—
not quite seen,
but deeply felt—
as if the night itself is watching,
studying the stars,
navigating galaxies of hope
with nothing but longing for a compass.
Turned out.
Opened up.
Like a Christmas present—
torn,
but radiant.
Laughter and freckles
etched into knowing.
The past,
just a sigh in the wind.
The future—not yet arrived.
It is now.
And that is enough.
Limited time
makes joy ache in a bittersweet way.
So it is only right
to submerge fully
into this sacred world
of breath and birdsong.
They say there are
a hundred billion planets
just in our galaxy—
and two trillion galaxies
still spinning in the dark.
A septillion worlds,
each cold, each silent,
each waiting.
But only this one
wept at sunrise,
wrote sonnets,
whispered I love you in kitchens,
birthed children,
broke hearts,
and kept going.
We—
star-born with nerve endings,
carbon dreaming in the dark—
are the only known thing
that has ever looked up
and asked:
Why?
With war,
and planes torn from the sky,
we forget
the simple, gentle fact
that it is a miracle
we are here at all.
Copyright ©
Gabrielle Munslow
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