Where the Trees Remember

I stepped outside into stillness. The day was kind—low humidity, soft air, and the trees waiting in their quiet stance. Music floated behind me, but soon it was as if I had entered another rhythm. The trees bowed, the leaves whispered, and I realized the energy did not rise from me but flowed through me.

For a moment, it felt as though I could summon the winds—yet nothing was commanded, everything was communion. The branches swayed in kinship, the silence spun its own melody, and I understood: the current of life does not begin with me, it moves through me. Beyond the rustling sound of leaves was another voice, one not often heard but always present, waiting.

In that stillness, the veil of ordinary perception grew thin. I was carried into a living silence, one that does not merely soothe but reveals. A silence that speaks, and when it does, all light breaks through.

Through, Not From

The trees bowed low,
not to me,
but with me—
their silence spun a melody.

A current moved,
not from, but through,
the veil grew thin,
and all was true.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai