its silver dollar into your hand.
Hush travels a field,
something beyond name
moving in the wheat.
You hear it once —
a rustle like a promise,
a sigh behind the wind’s grammar.
There is a lantern
hanging in a darkened room,
waiting for the shape
your hand makes reaching for it.
Somewhere inside you,
a small hinge turns,
the faith of reason,
and the unseen door breathes open.
You step through,
less toward an answer,
more toward the gleam
of the question.
