Morning Walk

 

I was smitten by the silence

of the dawn,

or perhaps it was the dew

that clung to the grass like a secret

too fragile to speak.

The trees stood tall,

their leaves whispering stories

of nights spent wrestling the wind,

and I thought it was just me

but the sparrow, too,

carried the weight of its nest,

the ant its crumb,

the spider its web,

each thread trembling

with the burden of holding on.

 

The sun rose,

not with a fanfare,

but with a quiet insistence,

pushing through the haze

like a hand reaching for a forgotten name.

 

A butterfly brushed past,

its wings a flicker of pale yellow

against the orange sky,

and I thought it was just me

but the flower, too,

had its petals to unfurl,

its nectar to offer,

its brief, bright moment

in the sun.

 

The path stretched ahead,

winding through the shadows

and the light,

and I thought it was just me

but the earth, too,

had its cracks to mend,

its roots to nurture,

its silent, steady pulse

beneath my feet.

 

And as I walked,

I realized it was never just me

the world was here,

aching and alive,

breathing with me,

step by step,

into the morning.