I stand, small and trembling,
beneath the great roof of the world.
What is this hunger in the grass,
this quiet pulse that hums
in the roots of the oak,
in the dew that clings to the petal?
I listen,
my heart a soft drum,
beating yes,
beating now.
I look—
the sky is a canvas of breath,
and I am only a thread,
woven briefly into its vast, untamed cloth.
Oh! to love this fleeting green,
this wild, unasking earth—
it is enough,
it is everything.
