Home

The air cools,
slipping from the heavy clasp of noon
into the open hands of evening.

Gold leaks from the sky,
softer now, sliding across old stones,
across the hush of distant gardens.

A breeze stirs from the hills,
carrying the lazy gossip of leaves,
whispering in a tongue only half remembered,
lulling me toward dreams.

Above me, the green shimmers,
their edges gilded as if by accident—
and the vines, drunk on yesterday’s rain,
climb and weave into a trembling web
of branch, twig and silvered leaf.

Somewhere in that soft tangle,
the small thrum of new life-
songbirds threading their nests
between the light and the hush.

A beetle struggles free from a web,
the spider, undeterred,
begins again with a patient fury.

Wings beat against the slow silence—
one bird alone rises,
and sings into the vaulted blue.

All around me: green and gold,
and a sky so clear like your eyes.

The trees murmur, the wind stirs,
and from beyond the folded hills,
where water glistens like spilled silk,
your echo finds me.

I am coming home soon.